


Not Fade Away

by Dangerousnotbroken



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angels, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Fluff, Hunters & Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Psychological Trauma, Temporary Character Death, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 21:20:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2482856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangerousnotbroken/pseuds/Dangerousnotbroken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is an angel, existing outside the realm of human perception, but he is fascinated with the human realm.  When he is tasked with rescuing the Righteous Man's soul from hell, he embarks on a journey he never could have anticipated, and learns much more about humanity than he ever expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work originally began as an adaptation of the Little Mermaid fairy tale, but it evolved as I was writing it. The bones of the tale are still there but it became something much different. It's a bit of a different take on the story of Cas rescuing Dean from hell and the consequences of his success on that mission. I took some definite liberties with the established parameters of angels and their abilities, but it's not too far off canon. 
> 
> Big thanks to the lovely Petrichor-Amber and OnceUponATmi for beta-reading this piece for me. These wonderful nerdy gals helped me turn this work into something I am so very happy with. (Petrichor-Amber may hate me forever for the feels it gave her, but c'est la vie.)

_But if the_ _Archangel_ _, now, perilous_

_From behind the clouds_

_Took even one step down toward us_

_Our own heart, beating higher and higher,_

_Would beat us to death_

**_Who are you?_ **

**_-_ ** _Rainer Maria Rilke_

 

Castiel had lived longer than any human mind could fathom. He’d watched the universe give birth to stars, coalescing heavenly bodies from the dust and energy of others long since dead and forgotten, their light never reaching the eyes of any being that could put name to them. He’d watched those same stars fade away and die. _Not fade away. Burn out._ They burned brighter at the end, pouring the energy of countless millennia into one last hurrah before exploding, sending cosmic radiation, gasses and dust and light and heat careening across galaxies before that dust coalesced into new stars. He had watched those new ones grow, live, and burn out again more times than he could put number to. He’d lived too long for anyone to enumerate. There wasn’t a name for how long it had been. And yet, among his brothers and sisters, he was regarded as young. Or at least he would be if they accounted for such things. Time had no tangible meaning among immortals. Why measure something that had no end? Why count something infinite? Time was irrelevant. Castiel only acknowledged its existence because it mattered to humanity.

            Among his siblings, yes, Castiel was regarded as young. He was immeasurably old and yet, by comparison still full of a youthful exuberance, a curiosity, an insatiable desire to learn and to know and to experience things that the other angels dismissed flippantly. _He will grow in to his Grace,_ they said when they thought he couldn’t hear. They spoke in images and concepts shared, not in words and sounds, but the end result was the same. _He will settle, with time,_ and in that concept time meant eventually, not measured in minutes and hours and days and weeks and years and decades, but in the intangible, in the stark difference between ‘now’ and ‘not now’. They didn’t put a measure to it both because the measure had no meaning, and because with a taciturn certainty they knew it would be true eventually, ‘not now,’ but eventually. Castiel did hear them though. He felt the reverberations of the ideas shared between his siblings when they perceived his attention to be elsewhere, though it wasn’t. Castiel was constantly focused on humanity, this is true, but it doesn’t mean he wasn’t aware of his siblings, the mass-less energy of their incorporeal angelic forms a sea of thought, of _knowing_. He just didn’t acknowledge their assessment of him. He knew, but he didn’t respond. It was easier to let them dismiss his fascination with the humans, their Father’s creations, than to confront the accusations and be chided for his immaturity. It was easier if they thought his infatuation would burn out with time. ‘Now’ and ‘not now’. _Not fade away._

            Castiel watched humanity for the entirety of their existence, from the moment the beings that could be considered early humans drew their first breath. Across the continents, across the generations, he watched. From his vantage point outside of the realm of human perception he watched, he observed, and he loved. If someone had asked him, put words to the unspoken question, he could not have given a clear answer as to why he loved them so. It was his Father’s decree that they love humanity of course, and his siblings would never defy that, but it was supposed to be a distant, uninvolved love, an appreciation. Castiel’s love of humanity was well beyond what was expected but he was left to it because _he’ll grow in to his Grace. Eventually. ‘Now’ and ‘not now.’_ Castiel loved humanity though he couldn’t describe it. If he could, if he had the words to put to it, he would have said that they were all the best traits of the angels, and all the worst things of the demons, and despite their finite life-spans and their physical limitations they never stopped striving to be something more. The least of them still held more potential in their tiny, insignificant, frail human form than the greatest of the angels because they could grow, they could learn, they could improve. He admired them, their ability to persevere despite their insignificance. It gave Castiel a warm feeling, or at least it would if he could feel warm, if he could feel at all.

 

            Eventually, somewhere between ‘now’ and ‘not now’ as the angels would regard it, Castiel observed a shift in humanity. He would have called it turmoil, if he knew that word. The angels were aware of humanity at all times, though not with the rapt attention that Castiel showed them. They spoke of the turmoil in something akin to hushed whispers. _The Righteous Man has fallen,_ they would have said, if those were words they had access to. _The Righteous Man has fallen, and he is in Hell._ Hell was a concept Castiel rarely thought on. A realm within his Father’s creation, as all realms were within his creation, but outside the angels’ scope of influence. Castiel could not see into this Hell, this realm of terror and pain and suffering, but he could sense it and as the whispers grew louder the sense of that realm grew brighter and it tugged at the edges of his perception. Castiel had no concept of time for it was beyond him to conceive, but somewhere between ‘now’ and ‘not now’ his brother Michael spoke to him, conveyed his thoughts without words, shared his meanings with a soundless transfer of knowing between their incorporeal selves.

            _The Righteous Man has fallen_ , Michael showed him, _and he is in Hell_.

            _Who is the Righteous Man?_ Castiel queried, for he had a concept of the individuality of humans that exceeded the consideration his brothers and sisters gave to their Father’s creations and he thought of them as people, as men and as women, not as humanity in its entirety.

            _The Righteous Man is important_ , Michael replied cryptically. _The Righteous Man must be saved._ Castiel paused as tried to grasp the subtle meaning to what Michael was telling him. _You love humanity more than any of us_ , Michael continued, though the angels didn’t measure love, and so the idea of loving more was foreign and unclear. _You must save him, Castiel. He is important to our Father’s design. You must save the Righteous Man._ Castiel would have looked upon his brother with bright eyes then if he had them, eyes full of confusion and longing, for he wanted more than anything to interact with humanity, but he couldn’t, they couldn’t, and it had always been so. How could Castiel, in his incorporeal, ephemeral state, be the instrument of salvation for the Righteous Man?

            _What can I do?_ Castiel was doubtful, feeling himself very insignificant, ineffective, and powerless. _We have no physical form. I cannot touch him. Humans cannot perceive our true forms. If I appear to him I would obliterate him. And I cannot even perceive into the Hell realm. How can I hope to enter, to defy the demons that inhabit it, and to raise a fallen human that I cannot touch, or direct a human that cannot perceive me?_ If Castiel had a voice, it would have been shaking. If he had hands, he would be wringing them.

            _All things are possible_ , Michael replied. _Within the plan of Our Father. All things are possible if he decrees it so. Hell is not a physical realm, not like the realm humanity inhabits. It will not be the Righteous Man’s physical form you are saving, it will be his soul. I will show you how to enter, and how to leave. The rest will be up to you. Can you do this, Castiel? Will you take on this task in the name of our Father?_ Michael knew what Castiel’s answer would be, before he even sent these thoughts to him, but he gave silent voice to the question anyway.

            _I will do it_ , Castiel proclaimed, the energy of his Grace flaring with determination, and he was intent as Michael showed him how to enter Hell and rescue the Righteous Man. He perceived with rapt attention as he teetered on the precipice of the only thing he could recall wanting.

 

ῼ

            Castiel found his way into the Hell realm exactly as Michael said he would. His Grace was muted both through intent, for he wanted to leave here without attracting the attention of the demons who ruled over this realm, but also because it wasn’t a natural place for the Grace of an angel to exist, and the very fact that he was here in this realm was suppressing his connection the angelic realm. He ghosted through the realm, letting his mind quest for a sign of the soul of the Righteous Man, waiting for the resonance in his Grace that Michael had told him he would feel when he was close. Time didn’t exist here either, not for the angel, but he perceived the passing of many individual moments before his Grace resonated. He didn’t know the number to count them, but it was not 'none'. Finally, eventually, after the right number of moments had passed he felt it, and he knew in the intangible way that he knew the value of humanity without ever having experienced it, he knew that he had found the Righteous Man. His soul was brighter than the other hollow husks that suffered eternal damnation in this realm. It resonated with his Grace, the soul pulsing in time with the core of Castiel’s celestial being, feeding off each-other, each growing brighter in the other’s presence.

            “Who are you?” The Righteous Man asked with a sending from his very soul, for he didn’t have corporeal form here, and he possessed no lips to form the words, no vocal chords to thrum and vibrate and create the sound waves, no lungs to expel the breath.

            “I am your salvation,” Castiel replied silently, for he had none of the things the Righteous Man didn’t have. But they communicated nonetheless. “I am here to raise you from this pit of despair and take you back to earth. It is the will of Heaven.” The Righteous Man had no response for this, not for long, countless minutes, if there had been minutes to measure. Castiel studied his soul with all the faculties at his disposal. He had never been this close to a human soul before, never had the opportunity to study one this…personally. It was beautiful. Not physically beautiful, for it was incorporeal, but beautiful all the same. The Righteous Man’s soul was bright and honest and real, rough at the edges for all the suffering it had endured during his long but not measured time in the Hell realm, but at its core it was untarnished. The man at the core of this soul was a beautiful, kind man, capable of great love, of sacrifice, of nobility and honesty and all the other things Castiel would have loved about humanity if he had known the words to put to them. Castiel reached out, expanded the boundaries of his incorporeal self, reached out and let the energy of his Grace infringe on the non-space occupied by the noncorporeal self of the Righteous Man’s damaged but unbroken soul, and subsumed him. Castiel took the soul in to his Grace, absorbed it, took the whole of it into himself and let it become part of his being. He drank it in until there was nothing left of the Righteous Man, nothing left of himself, and only the new self remained, the self that was both Angel and Man, Grace and Soul, two incorporeal beings merged in to one. They fled the Hell realm as fast as possible, faster than perception, faster than knowledge, for the salvation of the Righteous Man was the only goal.

ῼ

            Castiel and the Righteous Man, travelling as one, a Grace and a Soul merged, transcended the boundaries of realms, crossed over space and time and physical realms and incorporeal realms and it was overwhelming. Castiel could _feel_ , he could feel everything that the Righteous Man is, and was, and ever could be, and it overwhelmed him. They spiralled aimlessly, or so he thought, so they thought, for the experience was beyond the perception they knew. It transcended anything that there were words for. It was not aimless, though. The Righteous Man’s soul wanted its corporeal form back. The soul sought the body, and it would not be denied. Their flight felt aimless and Castiel revelled in it, for this connection, this closeness with a human soul was the only thing he could ever recall wanting in all his countless millennia of existence. He drank the closeness in greedily, and it was glorious, for he understood humanity more in this moment than he ever thought he would. He revelled in it, but before he could put words to the feelings, put a measure to the time (for he still had no words for this thing, this concept of time that humans were bound by), it ended, as all things end. Castiel perceived himself, perceived _themselves_ hovering, their reckless flight from the realm of Hell halted, and he knew it to be the realm of earth. He perceived it to be outside, in the knowledge that it was vast and expansive and without boundaries, not in the sense that he knew inside from outside, for there is no inside/outside in the realm of angels. He perceived there to be stones, though he only knew what stones were because of the knowledge he had gleaned from his joining with the Righteous Man’s soul. And he perceived writing on these stones, words he could not read, but the Righteous Man’s soul told him they were the names of the dead, permanent monuments to the impermanence of human life, artefacts in memoriam of those dead and gone and lost and mourned. Mourning. That was a concept Castiel had been unfamiliar with, until the Righteous Man’s soul shared it with him. Mourning and loss and pain and suffering and grief were foreign and new and strange, and he revelled in the knowledge of humanity even as he mourned and lost and hurt and suffered and grieved, for in learning these concepts, he realized he had words and concepts and ideas for what it would mean to separate from the Righteous Man. And he knew that it was unavoidable, that he had to separate, had to let the Righteous Man go to his body, that even if he held on with all the strength of his Grace and his angelic form and his infinite being, he could not keep the Righteous Man to himself. It was not the will of Heaven and he could not make it so. And so Castiel released the Righteous Man, he wasn’t certain how, but he released him and something moved, something changed, something _shifted_ within him and they were no longer bonded. They were no longer one, they were angel and man, Grace and Soul, but apart, separate, individual. The soul dissipated, but it didn’t disappear. It _shifted_ again, changed, and instead of being an invisible incorporeal core of knowledge and power and experience and nothingness, it merged with the body it had been born to, though it lay in the ground wilted and damaged and ravaged by the time that had passed since the soul had last given it the will to live. It merged with its body, but it was not whole, for the soul is not the only thing that a body needs to live. Castiel reached out then, hesitantly, for Michael had not been certain about this part and he was without guidance here, out of his depth, acting on instinct only. He reached out with his incorporeal self and not truly understanding what he was doing, he delved his Grace in to the ground and _changed_ the man that lay there, invested with soul but not with life. He took the parts that were broken and fixed them, took the places that were empty and filled them, found the things that were missing and replaced them. He delved in to the core of the man that lay beneath the stone, _headstone, the man says it’s a headstone_ , that bore the name Dean Winchester, and he opened up all the places there was hurt and suffering and tragedy and pain, and replaced them with the love and reverence and tenderness that he felt for humanity. He took the broken man, the Righteous Man, and he fixed him as far as he was able. Castiel didn’t know what his Father’s plan for this man was, but in his core, the very source of his Grace, he knew he would need to be whole for the road that lay ahead. So he fixed him, repaired as much of the damage from Hell as he could find (though it would never be all repaired, because some scars don’t heal, and Castiel was woefully ignorant of what the scars that live beneath the skin look like), and he smoothed over the rough edges, and he made him whole. And then still acting on instinct, guided only by his Grace and the knowledge that the Righteous Man must be saved, that Dean Winchester must be saved, he reached out with his Grace to the very core of Dean Winchester’s soul, and he gave it a push. The tiniest part of his Grace, a fraction of a hint of a shard, broke away from the whole that was Castiel and infused Dean Winchester with life and breath and being, and he was truly made whole. Castiel raised him then, not from Hell has he had done in the imperceptible time since this endeavour had begun, but from the ground, out of his own grave, from beneath the headstone that bore his name and dragged him up to lay whimpering under the sky his Father had wrought. His clothes were rags, his eyes clenched shut in terror and confusion and the anticipation of the pain he could only vaguely recall experiencing in Hell but would never again be able to put words to. He couldn’t see Castiel, both because his eyes were shut, and because no human could see an angel in this form, and would surely die if Castiel made himself visible. But Dean Winchester could perceive his saviour all the same, and he spoke now, using words this time, for he possessed lips to form the words, and vocal chords to thrum and vibrate and make the sound waves, and lungs to expel the air to give life to the words. And Castiel heard him, though he had no ears to hear, because his soul spoke too and that was something Castiel would never have difficulty perceiving.

            “Who are you?” Dean Winchester wept, though he would never admit it to another human, for he was in awe of his salvation, and he needed something to attach the gratitude to. And Castiel replied not with words, for he still had no lips, no vocal chords, no lungs, but with his Grace, and he spoke to Dean Winchester’s soul.

            “I am the one who gripped you tight, and raised you from perdition.” He used images but the meaning was the same, and Dean Winchester understood him, though he didn’t truly comprehend the depth of these concepts and perhaps he never would. The Righteous Man tried to open his eyes then, to cast his gaze upon his saviour, but it was in vain. He tried, and was blinded by a brilliant blue light, for this was all he could see of Castiel. He shut his eyes tight again, throwing up an arm to shield his vision from the dazzling, blinding, unfathomable blue that bombarded every nerve, every cell of his eyes. Castiel left then, left the man he had salvaged from the pits of Hell to fend for himself, for he knew if he didn’t tear himself away from the human plane now, he would never leave, the temptation being too much for his Grace to bear. He fled back to the realm of the angels, back to the company of his brothers and sisters and even there, immeasurably far away on a different plane, on a different wavelength, he felt it. He felt the tiny shard of his Grace, the spark that had given Dean Winchester life, pulsate and grow and resonate, for it was part of Dean’s soul now and as he grew accustomed gradually, slowly, so very slowly, to being alive again, his soul grew stronger and it drew strength from this fragment of Grace. Castiel could feel him. They were connected now, a bond so profound he could not define it, and he was content, for he now knew what it was to be content. He could feel the Righteous Man’s presence, a bundle of emotion on the edge of his consciousness, and for a time this was all he could ever recall having wanted.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean Winchester returned from Hell whole, but not entirely undamaged. His body was healed, but there are some hurts that even angels can’t heal, and Dean bore these wounds in spades. He’d crawled out of the ground physically unbroken, all the scars of his past life healed, new pink skin where before he’d borne the marks of all the fights he’d survived. Even the furrows left by the claws of the hellhounds that had dragged him down were replaced by unbroken flesh. Everything was healed as if he’d never taken a wound in his life except for one thing. His right shoulder bore a mark he didn’t have before he died. There, emblazoned on his skin, puffed up like scar tissue, red and angry and showing no signs of fading, was a handprint. It didn’t hurt, though he knew it should have, but it troubled him. He slept poorly, waking to nightmares, his bed sodden with the nervous sweat of a man who feared something he couldn’t put name to. His waking mind did not remember much of what he endured, and he didn’t recall his rescue either. Castiel was deft enough to have ensured that. But his subconscious was something else. His conscious mind knew that bad things had happened, and he bore the scars of those wounds, but his sub-conscious mind knew what those things were, and in his sleep he actively recalled the tortures visited upon him. He had no intention to speak of it because Dean Winchester was a stoic, self-sacrificing man, who was not inclined to have “chick flick moments.” Dean was not a man who spoke about his feelings, not even under threat of death. If he was suffering, he would suffer in silence, and not Sam, his younger, taller brother, not the few other hunters who knew he’d died and come back, not anyone, would change his mind. He hid his suffering, brushing off any inquiries with a dismissive ‘I’m fine,” but he wasn’t and he knew it and he knew that Sam knew it. Sam was much more inclined to talk about feelings, though Dean rebuffed his every attempt to break through. Sam had mentioned the handprint once; he saw it while his brother was changing his shirt in one of the dingy motel rooms they stayed in during a hunt. Dean conceded enough to admit that the scar existed, but he wouldn’t talk about it after that. Dean shut down, walled himself off emotionally, and whatever he was feeling about his ordeal he showed no signs of letting Sam in. But Sam tried because he knew that his brother, if he could only admit it, needed someone to take the weight off his shoulders. Dean however, wasn’t interested in confiding. He fully acknowledged his need for reprieve from the shadows of what he’d endured, but instead of his brother, he turned as he always did to a bottle of Johnny Walker Black. He was his father’s son in this respect. John Winchester, dead and gone, was still an influence. He was prone to drinking to escape his problems, out of habit, or because it was there, and Dean found that under the stress of having returned from Hell and the scrutiny of those close to him, the drink was a welcome escape. It didn’t fix anything, but it sure let him forget for a while. When he did sleep, when the nightmares abated, and he found a brief period of peace, he dreamed. His dreams were confusing but at least they were dreams and not nightmares. He dreamed of the colour blue, which was confusing in itself, because Dean could not remember ever dreaming in colour before. He dreamed of being whole, not as he was now, but of being joined with something he never knew was missing before. He dreamed of a voice that spoke to his very soul and that voice was soothing and warm and familiar. Dean wished very much that he could find the source of that voice. Perhaps then he could sleep for more than a few hours at a time.

            When Dean was awake he was reserved, turning in on himself, curling up mentally and hiding his pain from anyone who thought to look. His brother kept trying to talk to him, but Dean couldn’t if he wanted to. He didn’t know what had happened to him, and he didn’t know how his salvation came to be. He’d woken in the dirt, having crawled or been dragged from his own damned grave, and all he’d remembered was that blue light, and the odd, pulsing, strange but oh so familiar sense of closeness. Even now, weeks later, if he could find calm (and it was coming more easily now, the more removed from Hell he was, but it was still a strain), and if he focused, if he was oh so quiet he could feel it. He could feel something within him pulsing, resonating, connecting with its other half somewhere, and the feedback made him feel more whole than he’d ever been before the tortures that had been visited upon him. But it always faded so quickly, leaving him with a hollow in his belly and he’d turn to booze again, knowing it would never fill the hole, but it would dull the ache long enough for him to sleep and he’d wake with a slightly less profound sense of loss. Each time he thought about it though, each time he reached out for that resonance the hollow in his belly became more tangible, deeper, and it latched on to him until eventually it became a part of him, as much as his hands were part of him, and he could no more shake the sense of loss than he could deny his own mind. Dean wished he could find his saviour again, the source of that resonance, but he had no idea where to look.

            The weeks turned to months and the gnawing emptiness in Dean’s gut didn’t fade but it became an accepted part of his existence and he tried not to think of it. Once Sam was convinced he was at least physically healed (Sam would never believe his brother was emotionally stable, but he’d never thought he was entirely solid in that respect before he died anyway), they returned to hunting as they had done since they were small, and John Winchester had indoctrinated his sons into the life of reluctant hunters of the supernatural. They took down a nest of young weak vampires in Wichita, a werewolf in Seattle, various ghosts and vengeful spirits across the Midwest and on the surface, everything returned to what passed for normal though neither brother was naïve enough to believe normal was something they’d ever get to experience.

ῼ

 

            Dean Winchester had no way of knowing but each time he pulled on that resonance, took solace in the brief and fleeting sense of belonging that preceded the crippling hollow loss that followed, Castiel felt him pulling. The connection resonated with him too, pulsed and grew and pulled, and each time Dean reached for that connection Castiel revelled in his connection to the Righteous Man. But just as it did for Dean when the resonance faded, it left him with sorrow and grief and loss and a hollow emptiness, and it was worse, so much worse, because only a short time before he had no understanding of these concepts, and they were foreign and uncomfortable. Castiel never reached out through this bond for himself. He knew too well the sense of loss that would follow, and he could only assume that Dean Winchester would suffer the same. He couldn’t bring himself to knowingly bring suffering to this human who had taught him so much of humanity in so short a time. He craved the resonance but he couldn’t force that cost on the Righteous Man. Castiel withdrew from his brothers and sisters, his newfound sorrow taking the joy from his existence, his newfound understanding of the passage of time making his timeless existence feel empty and meaningless. He longed to return to earth but he was at a loss for how, and he doubted that his siblings would permit it. It wasn’t so much forbidden as it just….wasn’t. Angels stayed in the ephemeral realm. They observed, they remained apart from the mortal world and humans were born, they lived and they died, never knowing the vast, nearly infinite wealth of knowledge that existed just beyond their perception. But Castiel pined, for he’d touched humanity and it had forever changed him.

 

            Castiel had a concept of time now, learned from his brief coupling with Dean Winchester’s soul, and the days (for he knew of days now) dragged on. He knew now that months had passed, long, arduous, empty months, since he had visited the earth and given part of his Grace to save the Righteous Man. Months passed before Michael came to him again. He came as Castiel pined for the earth, pined and watched Dean Winchester and wished with every atom of his boundless being that he could return to the human realm and comfort him. The man had suffered so much and he didn’t even know why. He suffered still, feeling Castiel’s presence just past the grasp of his outstretched fingers, and he suffered more when he reached for it and it slipped away. Castiel felt he would give anything to return there, to ease his suffering. And so when Michael came to him and offered him a way to return he took it anxiously. There was a mission, Michael had shown him in their wordless way, and Castiel was the angel chosen for the job. Castiel was to take a corporeal form and be among the humans. It was dangerous, this much was certain, and was not assured to be permanent. Michael showed him more than told him, that he could inhabit a vessel, one who was of great faith, and willing to be used for such a purpose. He could condense his incorporeal self and inhabit a willing body and his mind would be in that one’s mind, and he would control that one’s limbs and lips and eyes and feel the wind on that one’s skin, and he could be among the humans. But he could not take his Grace, Michael showed him. His Grace would be too much for the fragile vessel to bear and it would fade away. _Not fade away,_ Castiel thought, remembering the millions of stars he’d seen be born, grow, burn out and die over the countless millennia that he had watched the universe. _Not fade away, burn out._ And it wouldn’t be permanent. He’d have a finite period in which he could stay in the vessel before the strain became too much and the vessel crumbled under the weight of his angelic presence.

            _Why am I chosen for this mission, Brother?_ Castiel was doubtful. _I am among the least experienced of our Host. Would not Gabriel, or Semandriel, or yourself be more suited for this task?_

            _Semandriel is a good soldier, Castiel, but this mission is special. The Righteous Man must be guided. You will go to him, and you will teach him to trust. You have healed his body, but his soul is injured. He cannot play his role if he is broken. This is not a mission for Gabriel, or for myself. It needs one who is attuned to the human condition. You are my brother, Castiel. I cannot bear your suffering. I see how it pains you, having touched humanity and now to be so far from it. You have lost something so dear to you. I want only to help you._ Michael’s Grace pulsed and swirled and glowed as he shared these thoughts. He didn’t share everything with Castiel, he could not, but Michael felt he was sharing enough to advance his cause. _It won’t be permanent,_ Michael reiterated _and I would not tell him what you are, if I were you. Tell him what you are, tell him you were the instrument of his salvation, and there is no telling how he will respond. You have to earn his trust. If you can build that bond, organically, your mission will be a success. You must remember this. There is great damage to be done if you reveal your true nature to him_. Michael lied, for he had a much different goal than he let on. Even now, in the infancy of his planning, Michael sowed the seeds of doubt in Castiel’s mind, but Castiel was too blinded by his love of humanity to see that what he was being offered was too perfect. And so he took Michael’s offer to take a human vessel and go to the Righteous Man, and endeavour to earn his trust

ῼ

           

            The vessel Michael chose for Castiel was strong and healthy. The man’s name was Jimmy Novak and he was devout and true. Castiel studied the man’s face from his incorporeal form for endless moments before finally plunging headlong into the breech. Michael’s form reached out in some intangible way, pushed his Grace towards Castiel’s Grace, and subsumed it the same way Castiel had subsumed Dean Winchester’s soul in the pits of Hell.

            _I will hold it for you, Castiel. Your Grace will be safe with me, and should you return to us in the Heavenly realm, it will be returned to you_.

            _How long do I have, before the vessel rejects me?_ Castiel hesitated, not certain he wanted the answer.

            _It_ _is not known, Castiel. This has not been done before_. Michael’s thoughts were dismissive, and Castiel felt small in the absence of his Grace. _It is time. Merge with your vessel. He is ready for you and he is willing. You will not be able to sense the presence of your Righteous Man without your Grace. I will leave you near him, and then I must be away from here. You are on your own, Castiel. Be strong._ Castiel drew himself up, the ephemeral essence of his being gelling into something bordering on tangible as he steeled his reserve for the wholly unknown thing he was about to attempt. He wondered briefly if Jimmy Novak knew he was to be taken in this way, in this moment, or if it was a more general willingness to be used for the will of their Father. He certainly seemed unaware of their current proximity. Castiel hesitated no longer, allowing his essence to enter every cell of Jimmy’s body, suffusing his limbs and his lungs and his brain with Castiel’s own consciousness. Jimmy remained, a bundled presence at the back of Castiel’s own mind, a passenger in his own head, and he was unsettled. Jimmy was afraid but his faith stilled his panic, and Castiel willed him to settle. He was aware now that Jimmy did knew this was coming, but had not known when. As realization dawned on him he moved from panic to acceptance, and as he lulled, Castiel willed him to sleep and the passenger in his mind became silent, his awareness passed into unconsciousness, and Castiel was in full control of the vessel. He only had a brief moment to familiarize himself with the sensations flooding his mind, for as soon as he was truly in the vessel Michael _shifted_ something, and he was moving, he was flying, he was falling, and instead of upright, he was face-down (for he had a face now) on the ground. His whole world was pain, a sensation he barely had a second to process, and then he slipped in to oblivion.

ῼ

 

            Sam and Dean Winchester were holed up in a motel room on the outskirts of Gary, Indiana when they heard it. A hunter friend had given them a lead on some demon activity in town but they’d come up bust. A whiff of sulphur here, mumblings of black eyes glimpsed in a crowd there, but nothing concrete. Sam had suggested they stay the night, have a much-needed evening off before loading up the Impala and hitting the road, and Dean hadn’t argued. He didn’t have much fight in him these days. He didn’t argue much of anything. On this night as on most nights when they weren’t actively hunting something he sat on his lumpy, uncomfortable motel mattress, propped up against the headboard, drinking cheap whiskey in greater abundance than he knew he should, watching some cheesy made-for-TV movie absently and wallowing in a spectacular kind of self pity. Sam had his laptop on the other bed, grumbling about the inferior wi-fi signal and nursing a beer. There movie cut to commercial, not that Dean was paying much attention, and in the brief moment of silence between an ad for a used car lot and some new kind of breakfast cereal, Dean could almost swear he heard a thud directly outside their door. The sky lit up like broad daylight for only a split second, white and blue and radiant and blinding, only just muted by the yellowing curtains over the windows.

            “Did you see that, Sammy?” Dean exclaimed with more life in his voice than Sam had heard in months. “What the hell?” Sam sprung from his bed, nearly knocking his laptop to the floor, but his older brother still beat him to the door. He threw it open aggressively and the brothers shared an incredulous look. Sprawled on the dirty pavement in front of their dingy ground floor motel room was a man clad in a wrinkled trench coat and an ill-fitting suit, unconscious, but with no visible injuries. The man was breathing weakly, but there didn’t actually appear to be anything wrong with him. Sam was reaching for his phone to call an ambulance when Dean shook him off. “No dude, really? What are we gonna say? Hi yes, officer, we were just minding our own business with a mobile arsenal for a car, when this office guy nearly died on our doorstep. Please don’t ask any questions about the salt in the doorway, and also yes, this weapon is totally unregistered,” Dean gestured to the pistol in his waistband, then stooped check the man’s pulse. It was strong, so he was probably in no risk of dying immediately, Dean decided. “Help me get this guy in here!” Sam shook his head ruefully before grabbing the man’s legs as Dean tucked his arms under the unconscious man’s arms and lifted his torso to carry him to the bed, his head rolling limply against his chest as they jostled him. Sam strode back to the door, locking it and sliding the chain in to place before spinning on his brother.

            “What the hell are we doing, Dean? We’ve got some half dead stranger sprawled out in our hotel room--by the way, that’s your bed, so you can sleep on the floor now for all I care--you won’t let me call 911, what’s going on?” Dean just shrugged his shoulders and dragged a chair beside the bed, sinking in to it and returning his attention to his whiskey. He took a sip, swallowed it, then drained the glass and slammed it down on the nightstand.

            “I don’t know, Sammy. But I’m not dealing with cops tonight. We’ll take him to the hospital in the morning, when he can walk in on his own, if he still needs it. But in case you didn’t notice, this half-dead stranger showed up on our doorstep in a flash of very not-normal light, and it’s raining cats and dogs out there but he’s bone dry. So something is not quite right here, and I’m thinking trench-coat mafia here has some answers.” Dean kicked his boots off and propped them up on the bed, beside the unconscious man in the suit. “Get some sleep. We’re still leaving tomorrow.” Dean crossed his arms in the chair, prepared for an uncomfortable night of sleeping upright, as Sam turned off the lights and climbed in to his own bed still clad in jeans and flannel.

 

            Dean didn’t sleep well that night, but it was no worse than any other night. He wasn’t out long enough for the nightmares to plague him, but when he did wake, there was stiffness in his neck and his ass was numb from the poorly padded chair. He stood up, wincing as the sensation returned to his muscles, and stretched gingerly. A soft rustling from the bed beside him caught his attention. Dean turned his attention to the stranger there who was finally starting to show signs of life. He stirred, rolling on to his side and looking up at Dean.

            “Where am I?”


	3. Chapter 3

“Where am I?” Those were the first words Castiel spoke audibly, with his human lips. He woke, fear and confusion leeching into his mind, and for a moment he forgot what he’d done. Then it flooded back to him. He was human now. _Human._ He received no immediate answer as he surveyed his situation. There was something soft beneath him. His limbs ached, for he had limbs now. His head throbbed. The light of the morning shocked his eyes, eyes that were used to seeing, but the mind behind them was not used to processing this kind of input. Not yet. He repeated his question, for emphasis as much as to revel in the ability to speak actual words, before balling his hands up in the sheets beneath him (Castiel surmised it must be a bed he was lying on. Yes, bed. That would be the word for it) and pushing himself upwards to a seated position. The first thing his human eyes fell upon as the ceiling slipped out of his field of view and he became upright was Dean Winchester, and his breath caught in his throat. In his enthusiasm to accept Michael’s help he had failed to acknowledge the fact that without his Grace, he wouldn’t be able to sense Dean’s presence anymore. It should have been obvious, and likely would have been, if he’d hesitated for even a moment before assenting. But his fervour, his desire to be near humanity, to be near _this_ human, was too strong, and he had been careless. It was no matter. He was physically close now, close enough to reach out and touch Dean if he willed his limbs to do it. He had no Grace to resonate with Dean’s mended soul, but he was on earth in human form, and that was all he could ever recall wanting.

            “You’re in my motel room. Gary, Indiana. Do you remember what happened to you?” Castiel shook his head weakly. It wasn’t a lie, exactly. He really didn’t recall what had happened in the space between taking his vessel and awakening here. Michael hadn’t said how he planning to bring Castiel to Dean’s location. “Do you remember your name?”

            “I am Castiel,” he replied weakly, feeling quite overwhelmed with the entire situation. Dean was looking at him then, his green eyes seeming to bore right into Castiel’s soul, his face unreadable. “I do not know how I got here.”

            “Dean,“ Dean offered, gesturing towards himself with a thumb, “and that’s my brother Sam over there snoring like a bear. You musta had a pretty rough night. Found you unconscious on the ground outside our door in the middle of the night.” Castiel swung his legs, (his legs!!) over the edge of the bed and attempted to stand, but his knees buckled. “Whoa man, I got you,” Dean murmured gently, gripping Castiel’s arms and steadying him. “You need a ride home? Sam and I are headed back on the road whenever he wakes up. We could drop you somewhere?” His eyes were still on Castiel.

            “I…I don’t know. I don’t remember.” He broke Dean’s gaze, dropping his eyes to the hideous carpet, patterned with misshapen flowers, worn thin by hundreds of boots, marred by decades of careless spills and half-hearted cleaning. “I don’t know if I have a home.” This was untrue as well. Castiel regretted lying to Dean but he couldn’t tell him the truth, that he was an angel and this body wasn’t his own and that all he wanted in the entire world was to be wherever Dean was. “Where are you going? When you get back on the road, are you going somewhere specific?”

            “Nah, right now, just getting on the road. We uh, we don’t stay in one place too long.” Castiel knew this already. He knew Sam and Dean never stayed put, not unless a hunt kept them there. He knew what they did, what they’d always done since they were small boys and their father had trained them to be hunters, killers, warriors. He knew from watching Dean every moment he could since he had rescued him from the pits of Hell that they hunted the dangerous creatures of the world. He knew now, although he hadn’t before the rescue, that Dean had made a deal with a crossroads demon to save his brother, and that’s how he’d ended up in Hell to begin with. He knew why they never stayed put. Castiel nodded, and in that nod, he meant “I know”, but Dean only read acknowledgement. Non-verbal communication with humans was difficult, Castiel decided.

            “Could I….would it be too much trouble if….Can I ride with you for a while?” Castiel didn’t know why he had such trouble speaking his thoughts. He had a deep connection with Dean, even if the heavenly source of that connection was currently absent. He knew Dean, right down to the core of his being. “I have….I have no memories of my life before this morning.” This was less of a lie, for although Jimmy still resided in the back of Castiel’s mind, a tiny silent passenger in his own body, Castiel had not accessed any of his memories, and so he had no memories of _human life_ before this morning. “You are technically the only person I know.” He stuffed his hands into the pockets of the wrinkled trench-coat, the movement choppy and unfamiliar like everything he found himself doing now. He supposed he must appear pitiful because there was pity in Dean’s voice when he spoke again.

            “Well yeah, I guess so. For a bit. If Sam’s ok with it, you know?” Dean glanced at his brother, then at the bright red digits of the clock on the nightstand. “It’s getting kinda late in the morning. I should wake him up.” Dean wove past Castiel, around the foot of the bed, and over to his brother’s sleeping form. He shook him roughly by the shoulder. “Hey Sammy, get your ass up. Time to mosey.” Sam groaned sleepily, flailing out a long arm, striking blindly in his brother’s general direction but grabbing only air. “Where’s your manners dude? We got company.” Sam sat up abruptly. His long hair stuck up in various directions, making him appear wild and untamed. His eyes widened slightly as they fell on Castiel, then realization dawned on him and he calmed.

            “Uh, yeah, hey man. Good to see you’re, you know, not dead. You scared the crap out of us last night.” Sam carded the fingers of his left hand through his hair, taming it slightly, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “You alright?” Castiel opened his mouth to respond but Dean beat him to it.

            “Castiel here doesn’t remember how he ended up on our doorstep last night. Doesn’t remember much of anything outside his name. He’s gonna hang with us a while, if you don’t mind?” Dean phrased it as a question but his tone made it apparent he’d already decided. Sam levelled a look at his brother, one that Castiel couldn’t interpret. It was as if the brothers were conversing without words. They looked at each other for a long moment and then whatever they were debating was settled. “Pack your shit Sammy. We’ll grab a bite at that diner near the freeway and then roll out.” Dean then strode to the restroom, shutting the door behind him, and Castiel was left to converse with Sam. He knew much about the taller Winchester from his observations of Dean. He knew that Sam had wanted to go to law school, but had been dragged back in to the hunter’s life by a series of unfortunate events a few years ago. He knew that he was clever, oh so clever, and that he was just as comfortable in a fight as his brother was. He also knew he trusted more readily than his older brother. Sam was, Castiel surmised, the kind of person who trusted everyone until they gave him a reason not to, whereas Dean trusted no-one until they gave him a reason to do otherwise.

            “So you don’t know what happened to you?” Sam’s question cut through Castiel’s distraction. He shook his head.

            “I don’t have knowledge of much outside my name. I appreciate your assistance. For last night, and for allowing me to stay with you. It is a relief to have allies. As I said to your brother, you are the only people I currently know. I would rather not be without that, at the moment.” Castiel then realized Dean had returned. Sam stuffed garments into a duffle bag and tugged on his boots, while Dean pulled a t-shirt out of his bag and tugged off the one he had worn to sleep. He was muscular, but Castiel already knew this. He’d knitted those muscles back together with his Grace, fused bone and sinew and skin and muscle and hair and built this body back into its rightful form. His eyes caught the mark on his shoulder, red and angry, and Castiel felt a measure of shame, for he could have removed it when he mended Dean’s body and his soul, but he’d left it knowingly. He let the mark remain because it was _his_ mark, and he supposed that on some level he thought of Dean as _his_ human. There was another mark on Dean though, one that hadn’t been there when he pulled him from Hell. His chest bore a mark that Castiel recognized easily. Dean noticed Castiel looking at him, shirtless, and he balked at the attention.

“Dude, you’re staring,” He warned, but it was gentle, not angry.

“You marked yourself to prevent possession?” The words were out of his mouth before he knew he was speaking. “It looks new. It is not yet healed?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean replied, quickly tugging a faded grey t-shirt over his chest, hiding the tattoo behind the letters “AC” and “DC”, separated by a lightning bolt. “Yeah it’s pretty new. Got it a few weeks ago. What do you know about…” Dean trailed off. He didn’t want to talk about his tattoo. Sam and he had both had these tattoos for quite some time, but his had not been there when he came back. He hadn’t felt the same without it, and so he’d replaced it, exactly as it had been before, exactly the same place as before. There was very little he could control these days, but it still felt right to make everything he could control exactly as it had been before he’d been dragged to Hell.

“That symbol is intended to ward off demonic possession, is it not? I feel as if I have seen its like before.” Castiel knew it was true. The origins of the symbol were lost in time, but it would prevent the bearer from becoming possessed by a demon. Castiel then realized Dean must have had this tattoo before he died. He felt guilt for not resurrecting him with it, but he stifled it.

“It’s just ink, man. Just something badass,” Dean lied. He was willing to let this strange guy, this Castiel, ride with them for a while, but he wasn’t about to go spilling his guts out just cause he noticed his tattoo.

“So you’re not hunters then?” Castiel took a chance. Perhaps, if Dean believed Castiel understood the world they lived in, fought in, it could be a bridge to the trust he needed to build. Perhaps Dean would see him as a resource, an ally, someone useful. Perhaps he would let him stay long enough that Dean would start to want him around. Sam and Dean both stopped what they were doing, looked at Castiel, then looked at each-other, speaking without words again. It was Dean who spoke first.

“Yes. We’re hunters. And also yes, it’s an anti-possession tattoo. But how do you know any of that, if you don’t remember who you are?” His voice was gruff, and Castiel felt that his plan had backfired. He scrambled for words, looked for some way out of the hole he’d dug himself. He found himself at a loss when Sam approached and splashed something cold in his face.

“Holy water doesn’t burn him Dean. He’s not possessed.” Both brothers seemed relieved at this. Dean reached in to his pocket and pulled out something on a cord. He pressed the smooth metal object into Castiel’s hand.

“Put this on. If you’re gonna ride with us we need to make sure you stay you.” Castiel opened his hand and examined the object. It was a thin leather cord, worn with time, and a silver disc in the same shape as the tattoo.

“So I don’t get possessed.” Castiel made it a statement more than a question. He wondered if it would cause him issues, being that he was himself an intruder in this body. No, no, it would be ok. He was a welcome guest, not a forcible intrusion into Jimmy’s body. He would not be damaged by this. He slipped the cord around his neck and tucked it under his shirt, loosening the tie with clumsy hands, snugging it back up when the charm was hidden away. It was cool against his chest.

Dean and Sam led him outside the motel a scant ten minutes later. Each of the Winchester brothers had a duffle bag slung over their shoulder as they strode briskly toward their car, a long, black vehicle, with four doors and an air of age about it, though it had no visible signs of decay or damage. Dean opened the trunk and threw his bag in. Castiel caught a brief glimpse of the contents, knives and guns and holy water and salt, before Sam dropped his own baggage in and shut it firmly. Dean climbed in to the driver’s seat, catching his brother’s eye just briefly before shutting the door. Sam changed course, sliding himself in to the back seat rather than his usual perch in the front.

 

Dean drove aggressively, which didn’t appear to faze Sam at all but rattled Castiel’s teeth and filled him with anxiety. They rolled down the interstate, minutes turning to hours, classic rock blaring through the car’s stereo. They travelled in relative silence, Sam thumbing through a stack of newspapers in the back seat, Dean occasionally singing off key lyrics, Castiel quietly observing, staring out the window as the scenery rolled past the windows. It was nearing midday by Castiel’s approximation, the sun high in the sky, shortening the shadows and warming the air, before Dean spoke.

“So. Castiel.” He began. “That some kinda family name? Sounds kinda...biblical.” Dean held the wheel with his right hand, left arm casually draped over the edge of the door as they roared South down I-65. Castiel was startled by the sudden intrusion into the silence.

“Yes, I suppose you could say that it is.”

“You starting to remember anything? Any fun details comin' back to ya?” Dean didn’t take his eyes off the road as he spoke.

“No, nothing.” Castiel lied. “I am sorry. It is a burden.” Dean shook his head.

“Naw man, it’s just weird is all. You kinda just appeared on our doorstep last night, no friggin back-story, it’s just weird. I’m trying to figure out what to make of you, man.” Sam rustled his newspapers in the back seat. “We’re gonna stop for lunch at the next exit. Sam, you think you got a case for us?” Dean caught his brother’s slight nod in the rear view mirror as he pulled the Impala right towards the off-ramp. The lunch Dean referenced came in the form of a fast food burger joint. They gathered around a sun-bleached table on the patio, Sam picking at a listless bowl of questionable greens, Dean attacking a greasy bacon double-cheeseburger with what Castiel could only describe as gusto. Castiel had apologized several times when it became apparent that he didn’t have his vessel’s wallet and therefore was lacking the ability to purchase his own meals, but Dean waved him off. “Its fine, Cas,” Dean had insisted. This was the first time anyone had shortened Castiel’s name. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. Castiel looked distrustfully at the chicken sandwich in front of him. He was unaccustomed to eating, to food. There were many things about being human he hadn’t previously considered. This was only the most recent obstacle. He ate slowly, analyzing the unfamiliar feeling of the food in his mouth, the savoury flavour, the texture. Sam had brought one of the newspapers with him, and as he finished his clearly unsatisfying salad, he began to tell Dean about the case he’d found for them.

“So there’s been a string of ‘suspicious deaths’ in Macon of the past few weeks. A couple of prostitutes, a pimp that wasn’t connected to the girls, and a strip club owner and a few of the dancers from his club. They all went missing from a less reputable area of town; police say they were each last seen alive within a 3 block radius. Bodies started turning up about 2 weeks after the first girl went missing.”

“That sounds a bit more like an actual police thing, Sammy. If some sick bastard is killing hookers, that’s real sad, but I’m less than clear on what that has to do with us.” Dean drained the last of his soda and shook the remaining ice in the cup with disappointment on his face.

“Well that’s the thing, Dean. Every single one was bled dry. Not a drop of blood left in ‘em, and some pretty distinct tearing at their throats.” Sam and Dean exchanged a knowing look. “Vampires,” Sam voiced the thought. Castiel was unfazed. He was more than familiar with the dangerous and unpleasant things that lived in the world. As an angel he’d been graced with a basic knowledge of all his Father’s creations, but also the things his Father had not created, things that had been bastardized by forces beyond Heaven’s control. His rapt attention to the human experience, especially his devotion to following the elder Winchester, had given him more knowledge to draw on. Still, he couldn’t appear too eager, too well versed in their business. He couldn’t afford to give the brothers anything new to ask about, being that all they currently had on him were questions.

“Vampires,” Castiel repeated, his voice emotionless, betraying none of his knowledge. The brothers looked at him expectantly. “You lead an interesting life.”

“Yeah well uh, its’ the family business, you know? We can drop you somewhere before we get to Macon, if this is too much weird for you.”

“I will stay with you, if that is acceptable.” Castiel replied, perhaps a little too quickly. “I would like to be of assistance, if I can.” Dean glanced at him, a questioning look in his eyes.

“Have you ever actually…you know, killed anything before? I appreciate the offer, but I don’t wanna be babysitting you when we walk in to a nest of vamps. If you can’t handle yourself, I’d rather not take the help.” Sam shot him a look, but Dean just shrugged it off. Castiel feared he would never understand the unspoken communication between the brothers.

“I have reason to believe I can handle myself in an altercation, Dean.” Castiel cradled the name carefully in his lips, “but if you cannot take me at my word, perhaps a demonstration will allay your fears.”

ῼ

Dean listened intently as his brother explained the details of the case they were about to take on. They’d been on the road since 8am, so Gary was well behind them. He did a quick calculation and reasoned that if they drove straight through, and if he stayed behind the wheel instead of letting Sam drive like someone’s grandma, they could make it there by ten, maybe eleven. Castiel’s offer—Cas’s offer of help came as a bit of surprise. The guy was clearly in pretty good shape, strong shoulders, and he hadn’t felt like a lightweight when he and Sam had carried him in the night before, but he was not accustomed to random strangers offering to help them kill weird shit that went bump in the night. Mostly people called them psychos, or ran screaming, or sometimes they called the cops. But this guy, with the blue eyes that tended to stare a little too long, the ill-fitting, wrinkly trench-coat, took the whole mess in stride, barely even blinked at their trunk full of frankly terrifying weapons, and then offered to help take down a potential nest of vamps with them. This guy didn’t even know who he was, for cryin’ out loud! A complete stranger, both to them and to himself and he was just like, yup, I can kill shit. And then he offers to _show_ Dean that he can handle himself in a fight, like that’s a totally normal thing to do.

“A demonstration?” Dean choked out. Sam clearly found the whole scenario hilarious, and Dean shot him a look he hoped would shut his mouth. “You want to…wrestle?” Dean was not used to getting handsy with another dude unless it was a literal life or death situation.

“If you can see first hand that I am capable of defending myself well in a difficult situation, perhaps you will be more interested in my help with these vampires. I only wish to be of assistance. It is the least I can do to show gratitude for the kindness you have shown me.” Castiel’s voice was gruff, like he’d drunk entirely too much whiskey. And somehow, despite his better judgement, Dean acknowledged the wisdom of the suggestion, and he found himself poised opposite the blue-eyed stranger in an empty field just off the interstate, his jacket slung over the open door of the Impala, waiting to see who would make the first move. Castiel still wore the trench-coat. Dean was unsure if they guy ever actually took it off. He stood a few feet from Dean, posture relaxed, arms at his sides, and there was an easy grace in the way he held himself. Dean decided he would let the stranger make the first move. This was just a game anyway, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t about to put too much thought, too much effort in to it. Castiel shifted his weight and lunged at him. He moved quickly, so quickly, but Dean wasn’t slow himself, and he slid deftly to the left and landed a punch on his opponent’s ribs. Castiel grunted but didn’t slow, spinning to sweep Dean’s legs out from under him. He landed on the dry grass, startled, and didn’t have time to relax before Castiel’s forearm came down on his throat, pressing hard enough to make his point, but not hard enough to do any real damage. “Satisfied?” Castiel asked, and from anyone else Dean would have said that was gloating, but he said it the same way you’d ask if someone was thirsty. There was no pride in the words and Dean got the impression that if he didn’t say yes, he’d get his ass handed to him on a silver platter. He nodded as much as he could with an arm over his throat. Castiel’s face was unreadable as he offered Dean a hand, pulled him to his feet. “So you will accept my assistance with these vampires?” Dean nodded again.

“Yeah I guess so. But don’t go running in all half-cocked. We study these things. We learn what we’re dealing with before we go in. Could be one vamp, could be five. You follow our lead.”

“I’m sorry, Dean, did you just tell someone to exercise caution? Did you seriously just suggest that another person not go in to a situation half-cocked? Have you _met_ you?” Sam barely got the words out through his laughter.

“You can be replaced, you know.” Dean shot at his brother.

“Yeah whatever. Look, Castiel, we appreciate the help and all, but these things are dangerous, even if you know how to handle yourself. You gotta take the head off to kill them, and they are strong. You don’t have to come with us.” Sam was always such a girl when it came to things like this.

“I believe I will be fine. Thank you for your concern. But I wish to help.”


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel found himself seated in the back seat of the Impala for the next leg of the journey to Macon. Dean drove, though Sam had tried to insist that he take a shift.

“Sammy, if I let you drive, we wouldn’t get there until next week. You drive like a blind woman. There’s absolutely no way that’s happening.” Castiel wondered what first hand experience Dean had with sightless females operating motor vehicles, but he decided not to ask. Sam huffed, disgruntled, reached for the radio dial, but his hand was smacked away roughly. “Driver picks the music. Shotgun shuts his cakehole. You know the rules.” Dean slid a worn cassette into the slot in the dash, and Castiel found his ears assaulted by something loud, aggressive, and full of shouting. “S’matter, Cas? Not a Metallica fan?” Dean roared over the music.

“It’s very Loud,” Castiel bellowed his reply.

“What?!” Dean hollered, drowned by the noise.

“What?!” Castiel barked back?

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Sam muttered, turning the radio down to a slightly more manageable volume, and earning a glare from the elder Winchester.

“I said, it’s very loud,” Castiel offered flatly. “I’m not familiar with their body of work, so while I could not legitimately consider myself a fan, I am intrigued.”

“Ok intrigued I can deal with.” Dean grinned at him in the rear-view mirror, and launched into a lecture on why _Enter Sandman_ was a poetic masterpiece, and how the band was much better before they started cutting the guitar solos down to make the songs more “accessible” for radio play, and assorted other tidbits of minutia about the group. Castiel listened intently at first, but then found his mind wandering. It wasn’t that he found the subject matter boring. Rather, Dean’s passion on the subject inspired him to ponder the concept of passion in general. He supposed that the other angels would describe his fascination with the human race as a passion. He was meticulous in his attention to their world even before he had encountered the man who was now ranting loudly about James Hetfield. He relished his knowledge of them, revelled in each new experience, and fervently sought opportunities to explore more about their nature. Castiel had never thought about the nature of passion in his previous state, partially because he had not the words for it, but more because he hadn’t the subject for assessment. Now, listening with half an ear to the Righteous Man rant and ramble, talking endlessly about this group of musicians, and watching Sam half-heartedly roll his eyes, as if he’d heard all these stories a thousand times before, Castiel was struck by the comparison. Although Castiel himself had never so much gushed about his fascination with humanity, he knew his angelic kin were aware of it. They left him to it because it gave him joy, but not a one of them understood or appreciated the draw humanity held for him. Dean was the same way with this Metallica. The music gave him joy and though Sam didn’t understand it, though Castiel didn’t yet understand it, the both of them let him have his passion, let him crank the dial and belt out lyrics as he drove because the passion fuelled him, and it wasn’t hurting anyone, and Sam and Castiel both wished to see him happy. Castiel became aware that Dean was now talking to him, rather than at him, and came back to the conversation.

“Sorry, Dean, what were you saying?” he feigned a lack of hearing to excuse his lack of attention.

“I asked if you liked what you’re hearing!” Dean drummed his hands on the steering wheel and crooned along with the singer. “This one’s ‘And Justice for All.” Castiel offered some vague response, an ascent, a non-specific agreement. In truth, he hadn’t listened to the music much at all, but even his noncommittal appreciation of the music made the other man grin, so he let the lie stand.

Hours later as they cruised along the interstate, Dean gradually came to notice that Cas and Sam had fallen asleep. Sam was leaned up against the passenger door, his jacket balled up in place of a pillow and slept silently, barely moving. Castiel had sprawled himself out gracelessly on the length of the back seat, still clad in his trench coat, arm tucked under his head, and he snored softly. Dean turned the music down, but just slightly. They’d managed to fall asleep to the chords of ‘I Disappear,’ they could sleep through a slightly quieter rendition of ‘Nothing Else Matters.’ As he drove, Dean reached out mentally for the bundle of sensation that was always just out of the corner of his mind’s eye. He let his thoughts quest, letting his emotions pulse and feed into the reverberation, let the sensation resonate in his mind. He let it calm him. He let it fill him with comfort and acceptance until he was full to bursting. He let waves of peace pass over him, and then as suddenly as it came on, it was gone, and he was left with a gnawing hollow void in his belly. Part of him thought he should stop trying. Every time he reached for that comfort, the stab that was its price was sharper, deeper, and the sense of emptiness was so much more profound. But Dean had always been an instant gratification kind of guy. A minute of that perfect acceptance, that sense of a bond, deeper than skin, deeper than his soul, was worth all the abject loneliness he’d feel afterwards. Even if afterwards, Dean would always feel otherwise.

ῼ

It was nearly midnight by the time they rolled in to Macon. They tried three motels before they found one that had any rooms free, and even then they were only able to get one room. Sam threw his duffle on a chair and stretched out on the far bed without a word. He cursed their luck at only being able to get two beds for three guys, and cursed again that the motel didn’t have any pull out cots available, but at least they’d gotten some extra pillows and blankets. Convenient it was not, but at least they’d have a spare pair of hands if there ended up being too many vampires for the two of them to handle. Sam tucked his arms behind his head, stared up at the ceiling, and exhaled a relaxed sigh. As rough as the past few months had been, he was grateful that his brother was alive. He’d grieved for him, when the hounds had dragged him to Hell, but he had come nowhere near getting over Dean’s death, and it was an incredible relief when he’d shown up on his doorstep in the middle of the night. Sam had stopped hunting while Dean was gone. He’d stayed in the same motel room they’d had when Dean had…when he’d died. Sam told himself repeatedly that he’d move on tomorrow, the next day, soon and later and eventually. But part of him had known he couldn’t leave. He had only started hunting again when his brother had shown up at Stanford a few years back. Now that his dad was gone, Dean had been his only connection to that life. When he had died, Sam felt no draw to keep going, but he also felt no push to move on either. He’d probably still be in that motel room if Dean hadn’t shown up, still covered in the grave dirt and not telling any stories. And now this random guy in a trench-coat shows up on their doorstep, and Dean is so ready to let him in to their lives…Sam knew on some level he was just placating his brother. He’d just as soon have dropped the guy at the hospital and left him there, but Dean had basically insisted they keep him around. Since he came back, Dean hadn’t shown a whole lot of interest in much of anything, and Sam wasn’t about to shut him down the first time he did.

“So I’m way too bagged after a day on the road to go check in to these blood suckers tonight, I say we spend the daylight looking for places they might be holed up and tackle them tomorrow night.” He kicked his boots off, and reached up to accept the beer his brother offered.

“Would it not be prudent to take on the vampires during the daylight?” Castiel asked, also accepting a beer from Dean, but looking at it like he had no idea what to do with the bottle.

“Well sure,” Dean answered before Sam got a chance. “If we can figure out where they’re napping before the sun sets. It’s gotta be somewhere in the neighbourhood everyone’s gone missing from, but that’s a lot of buildings to check in one day. Once the sun goes down, they’ll be up and about, and maybe if we find one we can follow it back.” Dean had slung his jacket over a chair and was deep in to his own beer, fiddling with the TV remote. He landed on some infomercial after a few cycles through the channels. There was never anything on this late and Dean knew it. Castiel stood in the doorway. He hadn’t moved since he’d closed the door behind them. He carried himself awkwardly, Sam had noticed, and his people skills were a bit rusty. And the whole amnesia thing was pretty soap opera. He was surprised Dean hadn’t noticed, considering his poorly hidden ‘secret’ love of those kinds of shows. It was totally the kind of thing that would happen on Dr. Sexy. Dean sat down at the foot of the other bed, peeling the label off his beer absently. His eyes were on the TV, but his thoughts were clearly elsewhere. “Anyone else just become painfully aware of the problem with our person-to-bed ratio?”

“I will sleep on the floor,” Castiel offered.

“Dude that’s dumb. There’s enough room for two on one of these beds. You just keep to your side. I don’t do cuddling.”

ῼ

Castiel did not sleep. He knew his vessel needed to rest but that rest was elusive. He lay curled on the edge of the narrow bed, blankets wrapped tight around him. Sam had insisted he remove the trench-coat and his suit jacket but otherwise, he was fully clothed. Dean was stretched out beside him under a separate blanket, and he could tell the hunter was restless as well. He slept but he was fitful, tossing, and making small, frightened noises in his throat. Castiel rolled on to his side and looked at Dean in the dark. The little moonlight that streamed through a window showed a pained look on his face. Castiel’s breath caught in his throat. It was unfair that someone who sacrificed so much would be forced to suffer like this. He’d taken enough punishment. He’d been through enough pain. If Castiel had his Grace he could sooth the nightmares, calm Dean’s mind, and let him rest. If he was his true self he could help. But now, human, he was powerless. He was insignificant. There was nothing he could do. Dean stirred again, thrashing, fighting some unseen enemy, strangled noises piercing the quiet of the night. Castiel reached out then, did the only thing he could think to do, and wrapped the sleeping hunter in a gentle embrace. He pulled him close to his own chest, carded fingers through the hunter’s sandy hair, murmured soothingly. He couldn’t fix this. He couldn’t take the nightmares away, but at least he could make sure his hunter didn’t have to bear them alone.

Castiel must have fallen asleep shortly after Dean’s nightmare, because when he was next aware of his surroundings, daylight was beginning to brighten the room. Dean was still tucked up against his chest, sleeping peacefully now, and he’d thrown his own arm around Castiel’s waist. Castiel wondered if this constituted the ‘cuddling’ that Dean had been adamant he did not engage in. He rolled away carefully, so as not to wake the hunter, slid carefully out from under his outstretched arm, and sat up. His efforts were in vain. As soon as Castiel was upright, Dean woke, grumbling about the early hour. He looked up at Castiel, then at his own arm thrown across Cas’s side of the bed, and if he thought anything of it, he kept that hidden behind his sleepy green eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean had been correct when he stated it would be difficult to locate the vampire’s lair during the day. The part of town where the victims had gone missing was a mix of seedy bars, abandoned industrial buildings, and empty lots with a few decrepit houses thrown in for good measure. There were dozens of places they could have been staying, and there was only time during the day to check four or five thoroughly. They could have hit more if they’d split up, Castiel surmised, but he didn’t relish the idea of searching for the vampires alone so he hadn’t suggested it. Aside from which, they were still ignorant as to how many vampires they could be dealing with, so their strength was still in numbers. As the sun crept lower on the horizon, the three sat at a wobbly table in a dirty pub, trying to decide if there was anything on the menu that they could survive eating, and planning their next move.

“The last four victims have disappeared from around the same strip club, so I’m thinking we ought to head there, see if anyone noticed anything strange.” Dean suggested, closing his menu.

“Yes Dean, that’s an excellent idea,” Sam replied. Castiel was uncertain why it would be useful to spend any of their time in a business where women took their clothes off for money.

“I disagree. That seems like a questionable approach.” He offered, further confused by the laugh Sam choked back in response.

“Yeah um, so I do. That was sarcasm.” Sam took a long drink of his beer.

“Well ok, you two are no fun. But you can’t blame a guy for trying. I suppose you have a better idea, Sammy?” Dean handed his menu back to the waitress as she arrived, ordering, again, a cheeseburger. Sam requested a chicken dish, and Castiel settled on some kind of pasta that the brothers assured him was edible. Food was still baffling to him. Sam spoke up as the waitress left the table.

“Um actually no. I guess I don’t. We start at the club, see if anyone saw or heard anything, and fan our search out from there. It’s not a great plan, but it’s a plan.”

 

Two hours later as the last rays of the days light disappeared behind the skyline, Castiel found himself following Sam and Dean towards a club that proclaimed itself The Foxy Box in brazen neon letters. The music that seeped through the still closed doors behind the doorman was already too loud, and they weren’t even inside yet. Castiel did not want to be in this place, but he had professed his desire to be helpful on this investigation, and if visiting a strip club was what that required, then he would oblige. Not willingly, but he would oblige. Sam had insisted he leave his trench coat in the car. “It’ll draw the wrong kind of attention,” the taller man had stated plainly, and although Castiel didn’t understand what kind of attention he was referring to, again he obliged. When the doorman permitted them admittance, Castiel surveyed the dark room before him with something between wonder and disdain. In truth, he was grateful for any part of the human experience he could tap in to, but the less savoury aspects such as this, he preferred to experience from afar. The floor was sticky, and the patrons all leered in a decidedly unwholesome manner. He found himself hoping Sam and Dean would get the information they needed quickly, so they could leave. He’d much rather take on the vampires they sought than stay here longer than necessary.

“What’s the matter, Cas, you never been to a nudie bar before?” Dean flashed him a winning smile.

“I have never visited this particular kind of establishment before, no.” Castiel flushed and focused his attention on his shoes. “I find it distasteful.” Sam returned from the bar before he was forced to discuss the matter further.

“So get this,” Sam began, glancing around to make sure no one was listening too closely. “The bartender says she didn’t notice anything weird, but the last two girls to go missing were roommates, and the other girl that lived with them is working tonight. Maybe she saw something.” Dean wasn’t listening. His attention was focused on the stage, where a girl wearing very little at all was suspending herself from a pole by her thighs. “Dean. DEAN. Are you listening??!” Sam shouted at his brother, smacking him on the shoulder perhaps a little harder than necessary.

“Yeah, sorry, what? I was, um, you know, just scoping out the place.” Sam grudgingly repeated himself. “So this third roommate, did the bartender say where we could find her?” Sam rolled his eyes as his brother led them towards a table near the stage.

“Yeah she’s supposed to be dancing next.” Sam crooked his fingers into air quotes around the word ‘dancing’, leaving no doubt about what he thought off it. “We should be able to talk to her after she’s done.” Castiel sank into the torn vinyl of the booth, making himself as small as possible. He was not relishing the thought of staying long enough to observe the performance. A waitress came around and took drink orders. Sam had the wherewithal to ask if she saw anything when her coworkers were last at work, but Dean didn’t take his eyes off of the woman on stage. Castiel tried to pretend he was anywhere else. When the waitress returned with their drinks, Dean paid her and flashed a smile, and only then did he notice Castiel’s lack of interest in the performance.

“Man you are completely missing the point of this place! You’re not even watching!” Dean slapped Castiel on the shoulder as he took a long drink of his beer. The girl who was on the stage when they entered was gathering all the clothing she’d tossed aside during her performance and retreating off the stage.

“I find the exploitation demeaning,” Castiel grimaced as he spoke, not really directing his commentary at either of the brothers, but not speaking to himself either. “People always exploit each other. As soon as there’s something you want, someone finds a way to use it against you.” Dean just stared at him, a little dumbfounded at this outpouring from a man who was usually rather parsimonious with his words. “It’s exploitation of desire.” Castiel mused in to his beer. “Exploitation of the basest human desires, and I hate it. These women, they’d never do what they do here if money wasn’t involved. They’re looking to support themselves, and these men exploit that desire to their own lustful ends. And they in turn are exploited. These women and their employers exploit the lust and turn a profit. It’s a perversion of human contact. It’s a gross, twisted distortion of something that should be beautiful and pure. I hate it, and I’d rather not experience it.” Castiel grimaced, suddenly embarrassed at the litany he’d unleashed, but the words were out.

“Jesus Cas, that’s dark.” Dean noticed the worn look on his companion’s face. “Kinda takes the fun out of the whole deal when you look at it like that.”

“That’s why I’d rather leave.” Cas didn’t look up from his beer.

“Shit, yeah, OK, I get it. Look why don’t we go, uh, canvass the neighbourhood while we wait. Maybe we’ll find something, maybe we won’t. We can come back in a few hours when this third roommate should be available.” Cas looked relieved, which was in itself unsettling. Dean had known plenty of guys who didn’t exactly love strip clubs, and he got that. Honestly, leering at chicks you can’t even touch wasn’t everyone’s deal. Dean had always been a very visual person, so he had spent his fair share of time in bars like this, but Sam couldn’t stand strip clubs. Granted, Sam probably had a much more moral reason for not liking them, something about women’s rights or whatever, that he picked up at Stanford. But he’d never seen someone get so downright defeated by the entire concept of strippers. It made his skin crawl, to look at it the way Cas did. Honestly it might have ruined strippers for him for life. Dean cringed at that thought, as he downed the last of his drink and headed for the exit. They retreated to the Impala in silence, Dean drowning in his own musings on the really uncomfortable topic he’d been forced to consider. Cas had made his feelings abundantly clear. This was going to be an uncomfortable evening.

 

ῼ

When the time came to return to the Foxy Box (seriously, that name, what the fuck?), Sam was grateful. He never thought he’d find himself happy to be going to a skeevy peeler bar, but the entire evening had been full of awkward silence after Castiel’s tirade on the exploitative nature of strippers. He had to admit, the guy had a point, but his older brother was obviously weirded out by the whole exchange and it cast an uncomfortable tone on the hunt. No one they’d been able to talk to had any useful information about the deaths they were investigating and half the people asked had been either unwilling to talk, or too drugged out to make any sense anyway. The entire evening had been a waste and Sam was getting frustrated. They’d been in Macon for over 24 hours and they still had literally no idea where these vamps were and how many they were dealing with. It was not going well. Dean rounded the corner and pulled the Impala in to the parking lot out front of the Foxy Box wordlessly, the last few bars of “Simple Man” straining through the car’s old stereo system. No one spoke. Castiel had donned his trench coat again which Sam couldn’t argue because they weren’t actually going to be hanging out in the club and it made it a bit easier for the guy to hide the wicked long blade he’d armed himself with. For someone who had never been on a hunt before he was surprisingly not freaked out by the idea of sawing the head off of a vamp. That should have been unsettling, but it wasn’t. Sam had several smaller blades hidden on his person and Dean had a bowie knife tucked inside his leather jacket. Guns would be useless unless they had dead man’s blood to treat the bullets with, which they didn’t, and that wasn’t a guaranteed kill anyway. It would just slow them down. Beheading was going to be the way to go. Dean killed the engine and turned to Castiel.

“You don’t have to come back inside dude. It’s ok. Sam and I can go talk to this chick and see what she comes up with. We’ll come get you when we have a lead.” Castiel nodded.

“That would be preferable. Thank you. I will wait here.” Sam followed his brother out of the car, but stopped him when they were half way across the parking lot.

“Didn’t the bartender say the third roommate, what was her name, Jenna? Didn’t she say she was a redhead?”

“Yeah dude, why? You got a thing for gingers I should know about?” Sam rolled his eyes at his brother. His stupid, stupid brother. He gestured with a nod of his head to the girl standing outside the front door in ridiculously high heels, taking a sultry drag off a cigarette.

“Because those are definitely stripper shoes, and she’s definitely a redhead. Maybe that’s our girl.”

“Well isn’t that convenient,” Dean grinned as he strode towards her. “Excuse me, hi, I’m Dean, this is my brother Sam. Are you Jenna?”

“I don’t do private shows, buddy. You want a dance, you wait 'til I’m back inside.” Her eyes glinted with a ferocity Sam hadn’t expected.

“Actually, no, that’s…we’re not after a dance. I wanted to ask you about your roommates.” Jenna’s eyes flitted across his face then, shocked and searching and with a hint of something that was gone too quickly to identify. Sam thought it might have been fear. “A friend of ours, she died too. In a not entirely dissimilar way,” Dean lied as easy as breathing. “We thought there might be a connection. The cops aren’t really asking too many questions. I’m just trying to figure out what happened to my friend.” Jenna turned away, pressing the cigarette to her pouty red lips. She was silent for a long moment. Sam took this opportunity to wave at Castiel to get his attention. Cas vacated the Impala somewhat reluctantly and made his way toward them.

“Crystal and Becca lived together for a few months before I moved in. They’d been close for a long time. It nearly killed Crystal when Becca died.” Jenna didn’t look at them as she spoke. “”She was sure Becca had been in to something bad when it happened. I didn’t think she was using, not anymore, but we found needles in her room after she turned up dead. Crystal kinda spiralled then too, and I knew she was back on the shit before she disappeared. She started buying from this new guy, said the high was really something else. I didn’t want to listen to it. But she was grieving, right? Gotta escape somewhere.” Sam and Dean exchanged a glance.

“So you’re saying they both overdosed?” Sam inquired, not entirely convinced. What kind of a drug overdose leaves a girl drained of blood, with gaping wounds on her neck and shoulders? He supposed that might be what someone had told her, to spare her feelings, but there’s no way it was the truth.

“Yeah, overdose. Scary thing is, I know who they were buying from. I told the cops, but I don’t think they’re chasing it down. Who listens to strippers? I told ‘em exactly where to find this guy but he’s still dealing there so it’s obvious they’re not even gonna question him.” She sighed, finishing her cigarette and stamping it out under the platform of her shoe. She wasn’t short, maybe 5’7”, but in those shoes she was almost as tall as Castiel. Sam wondered how she even walked in those things.

“Could you tell us what you told the cops? About this dealer, about where to find him? We’re not the law, but you know, maybe we can find something the cops will act on?” Jenna looked up at Sam expectantly as he spoke.

“I’ll do you one better. I’ll take you there.” She didn’t smile as she spoke, but there was relief in her voice, and a tinge of anticipation. Gratitude. Someone finally believed her and it lifted a weight off her shoulders. Sam felt kind of bad for deceiving her. Nothing that transpired tonight was going to end in an arrest, although maybe her friends would still be avenged. It was something. It would have to be enough. “I’m supposed to work for another few hours, but fuck it. Let me just tell ‘em I’m taking off, and I’ll take you there.” Jenna went back inside, and Sam still wasn’t sure how she walked in those shoes.

“Just so we’re clear, this chick is leading us in to a vamp nest right?” Sam turned to Castiel and was met with a stare that told him he’d asked the dumbest, most obvious question possible.

“Yeah, Sammy, and the sky is blue and bears shit in the woods. Anything else obvious you want to point out for us?” Dean really had a way with words.

“So we let her show us the place, and then send her home, right? This could get messy if we have innocent bystanders to deal with.”

“We let her point out the crack den slash vampire nest, and we send princess glitter-shoes on her merry little way. Done and done. And then we go re-kill us some undead motherfuckers.” Dean, ever the poet. Jenna made her way back out the door then, same not-entirely-sensible shoes, but now with a coat over her tank top and mini-skirt.

“It’s only a few blocks from here. Come on, this way.” Jenna led them left out of the parking lot and around the corner. They walked in relative silence for about ten minutes before Jenna pulled to a halt in front of a house that looked like it had been condemned for the better part of a decade. The windows were boarded up, the steps to the front door missing every other board, and the screen door hung limply from one hinge. What a real estate agent would call “a real fixer-upper.”

“Thanks, Jenna. We really appreciate it. You should go home now. We’ll see what we can find out on this guy, and make an anonymous tip to the cops.” Jenna watched them silently as they moved from the sidewalk into the unkempt grass of the front yard, then turned back the way they came. Dean led, Castiel took the middle, with Sam bringing up the rear. They crept up the steps oh so quietly, approaching the door with reservation. Any vamps inside would already be awake, but the element of surprise could still be theirs if they were careful. Dean raised a finger to his lips, demanding silence, and reached for the handle. It turned easily in his hand and surprisingly, the door opened with no telltale creak. The three made their way in, stepping gently over the threshold, shutting the door quietly behind them, and surveyed the room. There was no furniture to speak of, just a tattered rug and a few worn cardboard boxes. Whatever human inhabitants this house had last borne, they had left in a hurry. There were still frames on the wall, their glass long since broken, their pictures torn or removed or destroyed. Castiel looked around the room warily, his long, curved blade bared tensely at his side. Sam reached for his own knife, not quite a machete, but big enough to sever a neck. Dean slid a hand in to his jacket to retrieve his bowie as they stepped through the living room into the back of the house. The kitchen was boarded up too, no light from the streets streaming in except a tiny sliver at the bottom of the kitchen door. A sudden noise caught Sam’s attention and he spun back to the staircase they’d just passed. A ragged man stood there, eyes gleaming in the beams of their flashlights. He didn’t flinch. Not a man. A vampire.

“Oh look, visitors. Isn’t this lovely. I was just about to go out for dinner, but since you three have dropped by, perhaps I’ll eat in tonight. GIRLS!” He bellowed, and two women who would have been regarded pretty if it weren’t for the jagged second row of teeth they bared, traipsed lazily down the stairs. “We’ve got company”

 

Dean eyed the vamp dude warily, as his companions made their way down the stairs. Three on three wasn’t terrible odds, but it wasn’t great either. He’d prefer something a bit more stacked in their favour, especially since he wasn’t 100% on the third member of their party. Oh sure, Cas had manhandled Dean easily enough but Dean was human, not hopped up on vamp juice, and certainly not full of the blood rage that would fuel these jerks. He hoped Cas had enough fight in him because there was no way he was gonna have time to baby-sit if this went south. Dean was surveying the room, thinking if they had a better chance of escape through the front or the kitchen door if this got out of hand when he heard the kitchen door slam shut. _Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck there’s more of them. Fuck._ He cursed silently. “Fuck,” Dean let one slip by aloud for good measure. He spared a single glance for the new addition, just to size up the situation, see how much worse it had gotten, and he felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Jenna.

“What are you doing here, I thought we told you to go home?” Dean hollered at the stripper without looking back at her. “This is not a party you want an invite too, sweetheart.” Dean growled the last word, his eyes fixed on the vampires on the stairs. He felt his brother tense beside him. Great. Now they had two to baby-sit.

“Oh but I wouldn’t miss it for the world, boys,” she cooed, none of the fear and apprehension from earlier colouring her words. Instead, she sounded…sultry. Relaxed. Confident. “After all, it’s my party.” The words cut through Dean like a knife. Of course. How could they have missed it? She had been way, WAY too eager to lead them here herself, way too ready to believe their story about a friend who died in the same manner. Way too easily taken in by their bullshit. The only real explanation was that she hadn’t been taken in by it and was lying right back to them.

“Fuck,” Dean spat louder this time. “This is a really shitty shindig, you know that?” he managed to get the words out before everything moved at once. The dude vamp leapt for Sam, closest to the stairs, and the biggest, so maybe he looked like the most dangerous target. Sam slashed at him, cutting his face, his arm, his torso with that blade, but he kept coming, unfazed by the flesh wounds. One of the vamps on the stairs, a short girl with a mop curls, snarled at Dean with bloodlust in her eyes as she leapt the banister and came at him, teeth bared. If you’d asked him about the story later over drinks, Dean would have said he lopped her head off with one Conan-the-Barbarian style swing but really, it was more like four or five strokes, burying the blade in her throat, ripping it back, slashing again and again until her head rolled into the corner and her lifeless body fell limply to the floor. The other vamp on the stairs was already on him by the time he stood up. In another life, he would have found her incredibly attractive. She would have fit right in to an issue of Busty Asian Beauties, if it weren’t for the animalistic desire she harboured to rip out his throat and make a meal out of his heart. And if THAT wasn’t a mood killer, Dean Winchester would eat his coat. Or Cas’s. He hadn’t seen Cas since everything exploded but he had only a split second to acknowledge that thought. He saw Sam out of the corner of his eye, grappling with big daddy vamp, holding his own but not really gaining any ground but if he turned his head to look for the guy in the trench coat he had a feeling it would be the last mistake he ever made. As it stood, sparing the split second to think about his strange new companion was mistake enough. The brief lapse in focus on his sparring partner gave her a slight upper hand and Dean found himself pinned to the dirty floorboards as a snarling, vicious babe of a vampire gnashed her teeth and made brutal overtures at his throat. He was able to keep her at arms length but just barely. It was taking all the fight he had in him to keep this bitch from bloodying him in a really unpleasant way. He couldn’t spare anything to throw her off, to fight back. This was going really, really poorly. Dean tried to kick at her, tried to roll off his back and upset the balance, tried anything he could do to right himself and get back in this fight, but it was to no avail. She was tiny but un-death had made her unfathomably strong. Dean had a fleeting thought that he’d always dreamed of dying while rolling around with a hot chick, but he’d never envisioned it like this, and in the tiny space of acknowledging how morbid, how royally fucked up it was to even think that, he heard a voice like silk over gravel cry his name.

“DEAN,” Castiel howled, and Dean couldn’t see what was happening, because vision was filled with angry vampire. And suddenly his vision wasn’t full of vampire anymore because her head was separated from her body, and her body was pinning him to the ground but with none of the pressure, none of the fight. Her gaping neck wound bled profusely on him and Dean had only a brief moment to be grossed out, and then Cas was tossing the head aside by a handful of hair, and kicking the body off of him, and offering him a hand. Dean took it gratefully, still a little bit shocked by the rescue, the ferocity in Cas’s voice. He stood up just in time to see Sam taking his final swing at papa vampire’s thrashing body, the knife Dean had told him was too small for killing vamps slicing cleanly through the last of his throat. Guess it wasn’t too small after all. Dean wiped the blood from his face with an idle hand as he swung his eyes over the destruction. Four decapitated heads, four lifeless vamp bodies. No human casualties.

“Huh,” Dean grunted. “Guess you’re not so helpless in a fight after all, Cas.” Dean couldn’t know, because it was way too dark, but Cas’s face lit up just a little at the backhanded praise.

They left the bodies where they lay. Burning would have be better, not that they could come back from a beheading, but at least there’d be no evidence. But there’s no way they’d get four corpses out of this building unseen at any time of the night, and sure as shit they won’t all fit in the Impala, so fuck it. The walk back to the car was silent, but without the tension from earlier in the night. It was like the brush with death had cleared the air and Dean wasn’t dwelling on the weird stripper exploitation thing, and Cas wasn’t silently regretting his rant, and Sam wasn’t consciously aware of being stuck in the middle of the strain he didn’t quite understand. They were just three hunters fresh out of a fight, grateful to be alive and maybe a little bit bloody and sore for their trouble.


	6. Chapter 6

As soon as they returned to the motel room Dean disappeared in to the bathroom, emerging long minutes later, shirtless and clean, no trace of the blood that had previously coated his face, his throat, his chest. Sam handed him a beer, already open, and he accepted gratefully.

“Well that was pretty successful,” Dean grinned, somehow his spirits buoyed by the knowledge that he had cheated death again. Sam hadn’t seen him grin in earnest in a long time. It was refreshing to see a hint of the old Dean float to the surface again, the Dean who hadn’t been dragged to hell and come back a changed man, a hollow shell of the man he’d been before. “You saved my ass back there, Cas. Thanks for that.” Castiel’s face was unreadable.

“It was…don’t….I owed you one. You saved my life before.” His eyes were downcast. Sam watched the exchange silently. Why would he be embarrassed about killing a vamp to save Dean? It didn’t make sense. Sam watched Dean and Dean stared at Castiel and Castiel stared at nothing, and the tension was back. Sam decided he needed to cut through it before the room exploded.

“Sleeping arrangements.” The two looked up at him like they’d just realized he was in the room. “Next town we’ll get a second room, and everyone can have their own bed, but who sleeps where tonight?”

“I do not care where I sleep,” Castiel’s voice was a low rumble.

“Ok then,” Dean answered. “Sammy, rock paper scissors for the single.” Sam couldn’t believe his brother still tried to beat him at this game. He always lost. Always. Every single time. Dean was predictable. He would choose scissors 100% of the time. Sam picked up on this when they were very young and had been using it to his advantage ever since. He tried not to abuse it in case Dean ever caught on, but somehow it always escaped his brother’s grasp and he never changed strategy. Sure enough Dean counted out the ‘one, two, three” and they made their choices, and Dean threw out two fingers for scissors, and Sam threw a fist for rock, and Dean grimaced like he’d honestly expected Sam to pick paper. “Move over Cas, you’re bunking with me again tonight.” Castiel’s face was still unreadable, as he shifted to one side of the bed, eyes still downcast. They drank their beers in silent contemplation, and all the tension of the early evening returned tenfold. Sam finally grew tired of it, rolling himself in to the blankets and shutting off his lamp, leaving Dean and Castiel in the dark. Dean kicked off his boots without a word, laying himself down on top of the covers and facing away from Castiel. He didn’t even notice if the other man climbed in to bed before he drifted off into a heavy sleep.

ῼ

Castiel sat in the silence of the room for a long time before finally doffing his trench coat and laying down beside Dean. He tucked himself under the blankets gingerly, not wanting to tug them out from under the sleeping hunter. Castiel wasn’t sure if he was more concerned about interrupting his sleep or the awkward conversation that might follow if he woke. He drifted off to sleep, worn bone-weary by the day’s events, and slept his first true sleep since coming to earth. He supposed the first night didn’t count. Unconscious from trauma was different from restful, dreamy sleep, and he hadn’t slept at all the night before. Had it only been two days, three nights, since he’d taken his vessel and come to the Winchesters? Time was still so foreign to Castiel, but in his infant perception of the concept he felt like it must have been so much longer. He’d experienced so much that he could not have seen as an angel. Somehow, he had so many more questions than when he’d started. Castiel barely even noticed when his consciousness shifted, when he stopped having waking thoughts and found himself drifting in his subconscious. His waking mind would later identify it as a dream but in the moments that followed, he only knew the sensations. He dreamed of blue; blue, like the light that had suffused his entire existence when he was merged with Dean Winchester’s soul in what seemed like another lifetime. He dreamed of his Grace, beautiful and powerful and intangible, and his heart ached for the loss of it. And he dreamed of Dean Winchester, his soul pulsing in time with Castiel’s Grace, that unmistakeable closeness of their bond, the warm, comforting glow of his Grace resonating with the fragment of itself that had healed Dean’s soul. As much as it had pained him, every time Dean had reached out for him, not knowing what he reached for, what he reached with but wanting it anyway, only to have the connection slip away, Castiel missed it. Before rescuing Dean from Hell he couldn’t even fathom the concept of loss, and now it crept into every fibre of his being, every corner of his mind, tugged at the edge of his perception and coloured his every thought. Even now, in the dream, where things were unreal and intangible and malleable, the black edges of that loss, that grief, tugged at the limits of the brilliant, blinding blue, and though he no longer had his Grace the memory of the loss each time Dean had reached for him and lost his grip settled deep into his belly and made him wish he could weep. He woke suddenly, ripped from the depths of his dream by an unholy noise. He acted on his first instinct and lept up, reached for the blade in his coat to defend his unknowing charges from whatever terrible beast had tracked them to this room. He stood with blade in hand and the room was far too still for a true intrusion. He relaxed his fighting stance, breathed a sigh, and told himself it was just his new, human imagination, playing tricks on him, when he heard it again. That low, keening howl, that wordless scream, wasn’t coming from some horrible creature seeking blood and vengeance and death. It was coming from Dean. Castiel dropped his blade then, turning his attention to the hunter, thrashing in his sleep. Dean was having another nightmare. Castiel cringed, wishing once again that he possessed even a scrap of his Grace, so he could sooth away the night terrors and let the Righteous Man enjoy the sleep he had earned with his blood and his suffering. But he could not. There was no angelic power in him, nothing he could do to wipe the violent images from Dean’s mind. So just as he had done the night before, just as he knew he would do every night until the nightmares stopped or Dean sent him away, he cradled the sleeping hunter in his arms, and stroked his hair. His touch was soothing and gentle, the pads of his fingers tracing symbols in the angelic language across the scalp beneath Dean’s tousled locks. They were symbols of protection, of gratitude, of strength and peace and love. Nothing he wrote here would stay. If he had his Grace these symbols would be wards, to keep the things that crept into Dean’s mind at bay, to bolster his mind against the ravages he’d endured at the hands of Hell’s minions. Now they were only empty words written with skin on skin by a man who had no power to enforce these edicts. Just a man, but Castiel put the strength of his intentions into the symbols, poured his desire to protect and care for Dean into every stroke, every line, every curve of the invisible wardings. It wouldn’t accomplish anything, but his touch was still nimble and comforting. He murmured quietly in Dean’s ear, hushing him and whispering peaceful words, and in time, Dean stilled. The horrible noises ceased, the wordless howls simmering to whimpers and whines, then fading to nothing, as the nightmare passed and Dean drifted back into the restful sleep he so deserved. He nuzzled into Castiel’s chest then, unconsciously seeking the warmth and comfort that was offered freely. Castiel slept again, drifting off into a peaceful sleep, and dreamt again of his Grace.

 

After the entirely too eventful vampire lair incident Dean was more than happy to have Castiel around. He told himself (inside his head, because who talks about this shit out loud?) that it was totally just having a third pair of hands around to bear the weight, a third pair of eyes to watch his back, that made it feel right to have the guy around. And it did feel right. Cas was a buffer between him and Sam. He couldn’t necessarily be counted on to jump in to an argument when Dean was losing, but at least neither of the brothers were willing to take as many cheap shots with another pair of ears around to hear them. He did side with Dean more often than not when it came to food choices, though, which was pleasant. Dean would much rather eat a burger and a slice of pie at a roadside diner than chomp on the rabbit food Sam liked to pick for them. He never protested Dean’s choice in music as they drove. He offered some pretty insightful takes on the cases they took for a guy who was basically a baby in a trench coat when it came to hunting. And he never, not once, made himself a burden in a fight. If Dean was prone to introspection, which he wasn’t, because Sam was the girl in this family and no fucking way Dean’s gonna get all inside his own head and think about _feelings_ , he might even be inclined to say he likes hanging out with the guy. Maybe. If you held a gun to his head.

When Dean woke up in a tiny little shit-hole of a motel, in a tiny little shit-hole of a town just far enough away from Corpus Christi to count as “nowhere” in Dean’s book, Castiel was already awake. Cas was always out of bed by the time Dean woke up. Morning people. Dean had given up on trying to get a room to himself lately. It’s not that he didn’t crave a bit of privacy, it’s just that Sam always seemed to win at Rock-Paper-Scissors. Cas had been travelling with them about a month at this point. They’d crisscrossed the southern states, killing a handful of bad things, chasing some dead ends, fighting a few creepies that got away and every single night, in every single town, Sam would beat him at the game, and Sam would take his own room, and Dean would share with Cas. He didn’t mind so much. The guy was an ok roommate. He didn’t make a lot of noise, didn’t hog the bathroom, let Dean pick whatever shitty movie he wanted, and never said a word when Dean was watching Dr. Sexy. You couldn’t trust a guy that talked over a show like that. You just couldn’t. Dean had been sure for the first few weeks that eventually he’d throw down scissors and Sam would slip up and throw paper and he’d win and get his own room, but nope, never happened. So last week, as they rolled in to Shiloh, Arkansas, in search of a vengeful spirit that was going after single dads, Dean had stopped trying to win a room of his own, and just told Sam he could have it.

“I used to complain about sharing a room when it was just the two of us, Sammy, but that’s just ‘cause you snore like a friggin bear. Let’s not subject Cas to that. You take the other room. I got a bed to myself, I’m all good.” Sam had raised an eyebrow at him questioningly, but Dean had tossed him a beer and let the conversation die there.

Now, in butt-fuck-nowhere, Texas, they were on the case of a regular salt-and-burn ghost story, and Dean was more relaxed than he had been in a long time. His nightmares had subsided a lot in the past few weeks, not that he’d admit to Sammy that he’d been having them in the first place, and he wasn’t waking up screaming in a cold sweat like he had when he’d first come back. Dean had pondered this once or twice but decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth and let it go without any investigation. Maybe he was just getting over his shit. Castiel sat on his bed in that stupid wrinkled suit but at least he’d taken the trench coat off to sleep. He was reading the only thing to be found in a garbage motel room like this, the ubiquitous Gideon’s Bible.

“How can you read that thing, man?” Dean prodded, and Castiel noticed his friend was awake. Friend. Dean hadn’t put words to it before, but yeah, he had a friend now. He’d never really had anyone worthy of that title except Sammy, and he was dubbed brother whether they got along or not, so this was new and unfamiliar and weird. A friend. “After all the shit we’ve seen, the things you’ve killed, the things that have tried to kill us, how can you believe in something like that?” Castiel looked at him then, his face unreadable as usual, and he just stared, for a long, drawn out moment. Dean felt uncomfortable under that weighty gaze and he willed himself to look away but he couldn’t.

“How can you _not_ believe in something greater than ourselves after all you’ve seen?” Castiel replied, his voice level, devoid of passion. “How can you salt-and-burn a corpse to send a spirit to the afterlife, kill vampires that have lived generations, slay monsters that before you thought had only existed in mythology, and tell yourself that the world only extends as far as what your eyes can see? There is so much out there that human eyes can’t perceive, but it’s there.” The passion slipped into Cas’s voice now, but he wasn’t preaching, he was speaking from the heart. “My father always taught me that Perception is Reality. The world, for you, extends only as far as you’ve learned how to see it. For everyone else, the world is humans and animals. For hunters, it’s humans and animals and monsters and ghosts. Who’s to say it doesn’t extend past that? Who’s to say that just because you’ve never met an angel, they aren’t out there? Maybe God, in the Christian sense, or gods, in the multi-theistic view are out there, and you just don’t know how to perceive them. Maybe the world is bigger than you know how to see, Dean.” Cas stopped as if he had just realized he was speaking and put the book down. He sat silently and tore his gaze away from Dean almost painfully.

“Your father? You remember your father now?” Something flashed across Castiel’s face, but it was gone before Dean could identify it. He nodded, a slight, almost imperceptible movement of the head. Dean might have missed it if he wasn’t already staring at the other man.

“A little. Tiny fragments are starting to come back. I remember my father teaching me about theology. I remember my older siblings, a little. We have a big family. But scraps. Nothing big. Nothing useful.” Castiel picked the book up again, set it on the nightstand, still averting his eyes.

“That’s good,” Dean offered. “If little bits are starting to come back, maybe you’ll remember who you are eventually. Maybe we can get you home.” Dean felt a tiny twang of regret at those words because as soon as they were out, Castiel’s face stopped being unreadable. It fell visibly and Dean wished he’d said nothing at all.

“Are you so anxious to get rid of me, Dean? Am I such a burden that you’re looking for a doorstep to drop me on?” Cas’s voice was soft, quiet, but still that deep gravely rumble. Dean cursed himself silently for being such an asshole.

“I just thought, you know, that….since you don’t….I just thought you’d WANT to go home, man!”

“I can’t miss what I don’t remember, Dean.”

ῼ

Castiel cursed himself silently for being such an idiot. Why did he have to go and mention his Father? He hated lying to Dean, hated every second of their conversations about his forgotten past because not a single word of it was true. He remembered every second of his immeasurable life as an angel. He remembered every single detail about his Father, of his siblings, of the entire universe since the stars had formed in the black nothingness that preceded existence as humans would qualify it. And then Dean had talked of sending him home, and it had stabbed to the core of him, twisted the knife. Sitting there in that dirty, horrid motel room which certainly contained cockroaches and smelled of mould and dust and old beer was the embodiment of the only thing Castiel could ever recall having wanted, and Dean was excited at the prospect of being rid of him. He had been so certain that he was making headway, certain that Dean was coming to trust him, and he’d started to harbour a tiny sliver of hope, honest and real hope, that he might be allowed to stay for as long as his vessel would take him. And that hope had been ripped out from under him. He was breathless. The crushing weight of this denial drove all the hope from his mind and replaced in him that hollow emptiness, boring into the depths of his being. The pain, the loss, the agony he felt when Dean had reached out to him through the fragment of his Grace, felt that connection slip away and felt the loneliness replace the warmth, was back tenfold, and it tore at him. He felt a tear slip from his closed eye, turned his head slightly so Dean wouldn’t see it, as he said the only thing he could think to say.

“I can’t miss what I don’t remember, Dean.” But what he really meant was ‘I will miss you if I go Dean. I will remember everything about you until the end of time, and if I leave, I will miss each and every detail until the stars burn out and the world turns to dust. I can’t miss what I don’t remember, but I can miss you.’ This terrible moment, where Castiel felt everything because how could he not, and Dean felt nothing, for how could he know was graciously interrupted by Sam knocking on the door. Dean sat motionless for a moment, staring at him. Castiel’s eyes were closed, holding back tears he couldn’t bear to show, but he could feel the weight of Dean’s gaze on him. It was a long moment, and then he felt Dean’s eyes lift, and he opened the door just as Sam raised his fist to pound again.

“Jeez Dean, you look terrible. Did you sleep at all last night?” Dean glared at his brother, his eyes like daggers, and he snatched a cup of coffee off the tray Sam carried. Dean took his coffee black, Castiel knew. Just another detail he’d remember until the end of time. Castiel stood up and strode into the room’s tiny, ugly bathroom and shut the door silently behind him. He splashed cold water on his face, willing the tears to stop, staring at his face in the dull mirror until he could be certain the brothers would not know he’d been on the verge of tears. He couldn’t bear the questions, and he couldn’t answer them with the truth in any case. Michael had not been clear on what would happen if he did, but he had been adamant that Castiel could not tell Dean he was an angel. He spared himself one parting glance in the mirror and he hated the pity his own eyes returned, before drawing himself up into a semblance of confidence, and left the bathroom. Sam eyed him as he came out, but Castiel said nothing. The moment was over. He knew he would leave this world without obtaining the thing he really wanted but he would continue on as before. The Righteous Man still needed his protection even if he didn’t want it, and Castiel would bear that weight until his vessel rejected him.

 

ῼ

Michael watched his little brother, all this time watched him and waited for the right time. He had lied to his brother, and for that he felt shame, or he would have if angels knew shame. But it had been necessary. Castiel would not play the part Michael needed him to if he had been forthcoming. It was imperative that Michael’s plan play out, that their Father’s plan play out, so deceiving Castiel had been a necessary evil. He watched his little brother stumbling through life as a human and he waited, oh so patiently, for Castiel to unwittingly play his part, to lead the Righteous Man down the path where he would accept what was asked of him. Castiel would never help him willingly, but perhaps with Castiel’s unwitting help, Dean Winchester would.

 

Cas was melancholy after the conversation about his father. Even Dean noticed it, and Dean was notorious for missing the whole feelings thing, even when it was right in his face. Cas retreated into himself bit by bit, until the friendship Dean had felt they were building faded to the background, and it was like travelling with a stranger. Cas never stopped contributing to the hunts but he was quiet, withdrawn, and wistful. Dean often caught him staring out the window of the Impala, a mournful, pathetic look on his face, and he couldn’t help but pity the guy. His brilliant blue eyes were duller now than when he’d first shown up on their doorstep, the unbelievable sparkle muted with an almost silvery-grey tinge. Dean had no idea what had caused the rift, and the shift, but Castiel wasn’t talking about it and who was he to force the guy into a chick flick moment? That was Sam’s domain. Dean resolved that when they got off the road for the night he’d take off, go find a bar and drink himself stupid and let Cas and Sam have a chat. He didn’t even need to mention it to Sam because honestly, he knew his brother would take the first opportunity for a conversation and try to get under the guy’s skin. Sam was such a girl sometimes but it could be useful. And Dean could go get himself blind drunk and try to escape the feeling that whatever was bugging the guy was somehow his fault, and Sam would fix it, and he could pretend it never happened. And monkeys would fly out his butt. Dean scoffed at himself because yeah, it was stupid, but the drinking part was still going to happen. He deserved that much.

They checked in to two rooms in a motel like any other they’d stayed in. Dean tossed his bag on one of the beds, not really paying attention to the room, or his brother, or Cas, and tossed his jacked on the chair as he spoke to no one in particular.

“I’m going out to find a bar.” Dean tried made his way for the door before anyone could object, but he wasn’t fast enough.

“Don’t you think we should do some research, Dean?” His little brother could be such a bore sometimes.

“Nope. You can do all the book-learnin’ you want, I’m getting drunk. Don’t wait up.” And he was gone before anyone could speak another word. Sam made as if to follow him but the door slammed and Cas shook his head. Clearly whatever Dean was after, he didn’t want company.

Dean meandered through the darkening streets of the small, dusty town, until he found a suitable watering hole. It looked like any other bar in any other town. Neon signs on the walls advertised various beers. A pool table in the back corner held the attention of two greasy looking men. There was music, Dean’s kind of music, but not loud, not raucous. The perfect kind of bar to sit in a corner, drink until he couldn’t feel _anything_ anymore, and forget about the horrible emptiness that had crept back into his stomach over the past few days. He ordered a whiskey and a beer, and told the bartender to keep ‘em coming. Guy just left him the bottle with a knowing nod. That’s the kind of bartender you want. He’d almost forgotten about that horrible, hollow void in his belly over the last little while. He couldn’t remember when it had stopped, really. No, that’s not true. He just hadn’t acknowledged it. He’d started to feel whole again shortly after Castiel showed up. Right around when they started hunting in earnest again. Sam had kept picking easy jobs, easing Dean back in to the life, but things had amped up a bit when the surly, trench-coat clad enigma had shown up. With extra help he’d been able to throw himself back in to the kind of cases that really took all his attention. Yeah. That was it. It had nothing to do with those blue eyes, that steadfast resolve, that unflappable unidentifiable…something. It had nothing to do with Castiel. And the fact that the hollow was back in his belly certainly had nothing to do with the fact that Castiel had shut him out, stopped talking to him, stopped behaving like the only friend he’d every had. That was definitely not what was happening. Dean wondered for a moment, just a moment, if you could lie to yourself long enough that you started to believe something for real. And then he poured himself another whiskey and downed it in one shot, because, fuck, that was not a train of thought he wanted to ride back to the station. He slumped in his seat, staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out what the hell his brain was doing. Dean Winchester did not do _feelings_. He didn’t do chick flick moments, he didn’t have heart to heart talks, and he sure the fuck didn’t get all mopey over a pair of deep, soulful blue eyes, eyes that stared back at him and felt like they were seeing right into his core, past all his walls and all his bravado and….No. Dean Winchester didn’t do those things. And he definitely didn’t get all lifetime special crying into his whiskey over feelings he was decidedly _not_ having. Dean sighed and poured another drink, taking this one much slower, savouring the sharp taste of the cheap liquor.

Unbidden, his mind started to drift and he found himself reaching out, searching for that resonance, the connection he’d felt so faintly in the back of his mind since he’d returned to the world of the living. He’d never stopped to think on what it was, really. He didn’t suppose there was any point in thinking about it. The feeling was just there in the back of his mind, and whether he understood it or not, it was comforting. He pushed against the feeling of it, now, willed his mind to touch that ephemeral something, and the warmth grew and pulsed and spread from his mind through his limbs. It was calming, suffusing his body with a sense of comfort that had been all too absent from his life. Dean revelled in the sensation, like a lover’s embrace, acceptance and strength flowing through the bond. He wished he knew who or _what_ he was feeling these sensations from. Without knowing how he did it Dean sent these questions out through the bond, willed his mind to send the words, the ideas out in to the ether. For long, slow moments all he received back was a swell of elation, an amplification of the sensations that had streamed through since he reached out to touch that presence in his mind. Gradually, the sensations faded into the background, and were replaced with images. Dean saw himself, dying, dying, dead on the ground, torn asunder by hellhounds, bruised, broken and bleeding. He saw his grave, the headstone marked with his name, and he flinched, suddenly full of apprehension, afraid of what this presence in his mind truly was. He struggled to break the connection, fearing now that he was joined with something truly, truly evil. But the bond would not break. His vision shifted, and now he saw himself still broken, but physically whole, stricken and terrified, on the ground above his grave. He was covered in grave dirt, save the pale clean streaks on his face, where tears of relief, of pain, of gratitude had wiped away the grime and the blood. And then his vision, the vision in his mind, and the vision of his eyes, faded to nothing and was replaced with a light, blue and white and brilliant and blinding, and he knew. Whatever this bond was, whatever he was joined to, by this pulsating resonance, the ever-present bundle of emotions in the back of his mind, was the very same thing that had rescued him from an eternity of torment and torture and pain. Whatever this thing was, it had saved him. Dean felt calmed now, the panic and fear that came with the visions of his death fading, and he came back to himself. He remembered nothing of the fear now, only the warmth that spread through his veins and could not be attributed to the whiskey. Dean chalked it up to the booze anyway, because the faint thought that it was something else slipped past his fingers when he reached for it, his mind dulled by the alcohol too tired to fight. He finished the bottle, and stumbled his way back to the motel room without paying much attention to his surroundings, and fell straight on to his bed with his boots on.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean didn’t have nightmares the night he came back stone cold drunk. Castiel was attuned to the horrible noises he made when he did, and he was sure he wouldn’t have slept through them. Dean slept the entire night, not waking in terror, not howling in his sleep, not even stirring from his sprawled posture on top of the bedclothes. He slept right through ‘til Sam came to the door with coffee like he always did. Black coffee for Dean. Always plain black coffee. Cas didn’t look Sam in the eye. He was still unsure of where things stood after the previous night’s conversation

_“What’s eating you, man? You’ve been different the past few weeks.” Sam had wasted no time interrogating him after Dean left for the bar. He gave up on research when he saw the look on the smaller man’s face._

_“Dean wants me to go away,” he’d admitted, almost in spite of himself. “I remembered something, a small something, and he was so excited at the prospect of getting rid of me. I’m a burden.” He’d slumped on to the bed then, shoulders low, and hung his head. It was the look of a man defeated._

_“No, Cas, really, it’s not like that. He just…He wants you to have your life back. He’s not trying to get rid of you.” Sam didn’t mention how much his brother had changed since Cas showed up, how he’d started singing in the car again, how he’d thrown himself into hunts with enthusiasm instead of reluctance, how he’d stopped sulking every waking moment._

_“What if I don’t want my life back?” Cas had been so quiet, Sam barely heard it. “What if I like this life better?” There was a gut wrenching honesty in those words, and Sam had no idea what to say in response, so he sat on the bed and wrapped a protective arm around him, and let the silence speak for itself. Sam knew Cas was just plain gone then, or at least he thought he did. If Castiel could bring himself to say it, the words would have shown Sam’s perception of “gone” to be a drop in the bucket, compared to the_ _ocean_ _of_ _Cass_ _true feelings. But he couldn’t say it, and so Sam really only half knew, but that was more than enough. Sam let the silence steep for long minutes before he spoke again._

_“You’ve been good for him,” he began hesitantly. Sam felt like he was betraying his brother on some level to speak of these things, but leaving them unsaid didn’t make them any less true. “Dean won’t admit it, because he doesn’t talk about things, but it’s true. I know about the nightmares. He used to wake up screaming, you know? I remember that first night you stayed with us, in_ _Macon_ _, and I don’t know what you did but you made it bearable. Dean’s been more like himself since you showed up. Whatever he said, whatever you think he meant, he’s better for knowing you, even if he doesn’t know it.” Cas looked at him with sad eyes, shining with unshed tears, and the smile he offered up was weak and tenuous._

_“Thank you Sam. That is…comforting to hear. But Dean sees me as a temporary companion. I suppose I had hoped he would want me to stay as much as I wanted to be here.”_

_“What will you do?” Sam asked._

_“Whatever I can, for as long as I can. It doesn’t matter what comes after.” Sam’s heart ached to hear Cas speak like that, but anything he thought to say in response sounded pandering, not comforting, so he squeezed the smaller man’s shoulders one more time and just sat there with him._

Dean groaned as he woke, and the two looked at him like a feral animal, not sure what his next move would be, not sure if they should be soothing or go on the offensive.

“If you’re waking me up, there better be coffee, and bacon better not be far behind.” Dean rolled on to his back, shielding his eyes from the sun with an arm, and groaned again. “What fucking time is it?”

“It’s almost eleven, princess. If we’re going to accomplish anything today, you better roll your sorry ass out of that bed and put on your book-learnin’ hat. We got a case.” Dean shot him a look that was like death itself but he took the coffee with something approaching gratitude and rubbed a hand across his bleary eyes.

“Book-learnin’ hat? Sammy, you are one weird kid, you know that?” Castiel remained silent, observing the exchange but not offering up anything in return. He felt vulnerable after his conversation with Sam. He didn’t know how to tread, didn’t know what Sam would do with what he thought he had learned. The knowledge that was just a fraction of the whole but could still be oh so damaging, if he spoke the wrong words. So he did nothing, said nothing, pretended like it never happened. He said nothing at all and kept up his resolve to protect Dean Winchester from whatever he could, until his vessel rejected him and he slipped in to oblivion.

 

Things settled back in to what passed for normalcy over the next few hunts. Dean didn’t talk about whatever was on his mind, but after his binge he was less….touchy, Sam noticed. He wondered if on some level, Dean understood why Cas had pulled back into his shell, if he was wrestling with some existential crisis that stemmed from that knowledge, but he knew exactly where he’d be told to cram it if he brought up the subject, so he let it be. Cas was still reserved, sullen even, but now that Sam knew what to look for, he saw how his face changed when he looked at Dean. He didn’t light up per-se, but the pain on his face changed a little, shifted perhaps from emptiness to just the memory of emptiness. And that was kinda sad in and of itself.

Dean slipped back in to old routines. He started challenging Sam for the single room again, (although he still never won). He drank a beer or two in the evening, instead of a six-pack to himself, and he was getting better at ignoring the pained looks on Cas’s face whenever he opened his mouth for conversation and decided against it at the last second. He didn’t know why he couldn’t bring himself to talk to the guy, but there it was, and he let it be. The nightmares came back, or maybe they’d always been there and they got worse again. They tore at him, and it seemed like they hurt more than before. He never remembered the specifics of what he dreamed about, just agony and pain and terror and hopelessness, vague senses of all the horrible things visited on him in his sleep. But since the night he’d binged at that shitty bar, drank a whole bottle of whiskey and then drunk-dreamed about that blue glow again, everything else had seemed sharper, harder, and more painful. Including Cas’s pained looks. He got better at ignoring them, outwardly but it was like every time he pretended he didn’t see, the looks got more mournful.

 

They were in a tiny town in Wisconsin, a village, really, when it happened. The brothers had tracked a werewolf, putting it down easily. They hadn’t even needed Castiel. Either one of the brothers could have taken this one his own but they’d done the hunt together out of habit. Castiel was quiet. He missed his Grace. In the beginning the loss of it had been buffered by the burgeoning friendship he’d formed with Dean, and to an extent, his friendship with Sam. But now when he knew Dean didn’t want him around, wouldn’t ask him to stay if he tried to leave, he felt empty. It was the same emptiness he’d felt when Dean had resonated with his Grace, and the resonance had failed. The same hollow dull void in his gut only now, here, in such close proximity he couldn’t have looked away if he wanted to and it burned. He’d weep if it wouldn’t draw those green eyes to him. He’d sob if it wouldn’t earn him a look of pity from that face. So he did nothing, said nothing, and felt everything, because how could he do anything else? He’d sworn to protect the Righteous Man until his vessel rejected him and he slipped in to oblivion. So when the nightmares returned he did what he always did. He woke, in their tiny room in the only motel in this speck of a town in Wisconsin, and he crept from his bed to Dean’s, silently, carefully, and he cradled the sleeping hunter in his arms, traced the futile wards on his back, in his hair, whispered soothing words, pressed his lips gently to his forehead, and willed him into a dreamless, safe sleep. It was exhausting, caring so much for someone who would never know the depths of his devotion. It tired him to the very core of his being, but still he had sworn so he held the hunter until his dreams quieted and Castiel fell into his own dreamless sleep. He slept so soundly, so deeply in his exhaustion that he didn’t wake until Sam knocked on the door with coffee like he always did. His eyes flew open, panic setting in as he realized his error. He looked at the sleeping hunter in his arms, and the hunter was not sleeping.

“Cas, Man, what the hell??!” Dean bellowed, as Castiel pushed himself back, falling out of the bed in a frantic effort to distance himself. “What the fuck is going on?” Dean’s eyes were wild, his hair a mess, and his face distorted in rage and confusion and betrayal. And Castiel knew then that he had ruined everything, that Dean would send him away for sure now. He’d known since the first night he’d held the sleeping hunter in his arms and chased away his terrors that it violated some very deep tenet, that it would be unwelcome regardless of his intentions, and he’d always known that if this moment came, that would be it. Whatever he’d built with the hunter, whatever tenuous friendship they had, it would burn away and he’d be left with ashes. He saw the fire in Dean’s eyes, and knew the ashes were coming, and he did the only thing he felt was left to him in that horrible, painful moment. He fled, because the only thing worse than knowing that Dean wanted him gone would be hearing him say it.

 

Sam was nearly knocked over when the door flew open and a blur of trench-coat flew past him. Cas was down the stairs and out of sight before he had a chance to regain his composure. Dean was sitting on the bed, a dangerous look in his eyes.

“Where is Cas going? What did you say to him?” Sam spun on his brother. Dean had a really terrible habit of driving away anyone who gave two shits about him. He couldn’t imagine how this scenario had played out, but he was entirely certain that’s what happened.

“Jesus Sammy, would you lay off?! I am so not in the mood for this bullshit.”

“What did you say to him? Why would you send him away like that?”

“I didn’t say anything man, I didn’t have to! I woke up and he was…in my bed and he had his arms around me and I panicked and he just fucking flew out of here! Like really man, what the fuck did he think was gonna happen??” And then Sam looked at his brother with such a look of…Pity. Dean thought it was pity he saw there. “What are you giving me that look for dude? I didn’t do anything!”

“Yeah man, that’s the problem. Have you not seen the way he looks at you?”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Dean was out of bed now, tugging on his jeans and snatching a coffee off the tray.

“I mean he’s totally head over heels for you, you blind idiot. And I don’t care what you feel about this guy, unless you’re a soulless asshole, you _had_ to know how it was tearing at him.” Dean froze then, silent, and Sam took that silence to mean he had noticed, and he’d denied it. That was the Dean Winchester way. No chick flick moments.

“And how exactly does that justify him climbing in to my goddamned bed while I’m sleeping?” The silence was gone, and Dean was raging again. “This unrequited Disney crap doesn’t make my personal space fair game dude. That’s not normal!” Sam gave him that look of pity again. “Aw Damnit Sammy, don’t look at me like that. What the fuck?”

“Dean, when you….when you came back…You were different. No, let me finish,” Sam raised a stalling hand when Dean tried to interject. “You had nightmares. Every night. Terrible ones. You used to wake up screaming, this haunted look on your face. You know this. I pretended I didn’t notice ‘cause I knew if you wanted to talk about it you would have, but you must have known I saw it. The first night Cas stayed with us, in Macon, when we only got that one room, your nightmares woke us both up. Cas, he uh, well you were already in the same bed, and he just held you. It sounds ridiculous, but just by being there, he made it better. And I’m pretty sure he’s done it every night since. Every single night since we took him in. How many nights have you woken up screaming since we met Cas, Dean? How many times have you woken up in terror? _Every Single Night_ since we met that guy, he has sat there, all night, and he has tried to stop you from suffering at the hands of _whatever_ had its claws in you when you…” Sam choked up at this part. “When you were dead.” Dean stared at his coffee silently. He obviously had no idea. “Now yeah, I get that it is _super_ weird the way you found out, but he was doing it because he cares about you man. And you just freaked out on him, and you let him leave here thinking you hated him. So well done Dean, all you had to do to make an actual friend was _die_ , and now you’ve ruined that too.” Sam stalked over to Dean’s coat on the chair and dug in to the pockets. “And you’re not getting these back until you go after him.” He held up the Impala keys, then dropped them in to his own jeans pocket. Grudgingly, because damn if Sam wasn’t right, Dean tugged his boots on and headed for the door. Just before it swung shut behind him, something caught his eye. Cas’s shoes. He’d left so fast he hadn’t even put his shoes on.

“Damnit, Cas,” he mumbled as he grabbed the shoes roughly and strode out into the cold morning.

 

Sam didn’t follow his brother. Dean kinda expected that he would but he didn’t get far before he realized he was in this on his own. He tried to think of where Cas would have gone, and realized he knew next to nothing about the guy. He mentally sifted through every conversation he and Cas had had, trying to find some sort of detail that might help him figure out where the sullen bastard would go. He couldn’t have gone that far, not without shoes. It took all his concentration, which was perfect, because it kept him from thinking about what Sam had said. The last thing Dean wanted to do right now was think about _feelings_ , although on some really fucked up level he knew there was some actual human emotions he was going to have to consider at some point. Evasive as always, he stuffed them down, crammed the emotions into a ball and swallowed them, fully intent on putting the heart to heart he needed to have with himself off as long as was humanly possible. He found Cas eventually, after a long and aimless search, and he wasn’t even expecting to see him there. He was in a park, and Dean would have kept walking if he didn’t see a hint of beige that suggested Cas’s trench coat out of the corner of his eye. Dean approached cautiously, carefully, like if he startled Cas, he might vanish. He approached cautiously because he was still unsure what he meant to say. Cas didn’t look up, just sat on his swing in the grey light of the morning, motionless and sullen and silent. His sock feet rested forlornly on the sand. Dean thought they looked cold

“Hello Dean,” Cas finally spoke when Dean was just about as close as he dared to get. His voice was sombre, the low rumble nearly a growl. Dean waited for him to speak again and it felt like he waited forever, but he was met with only silence. Cas still didn’t speak up.

“Why did you run out like that, Cas?” Dean tried to make his voice soft. “Sam’s worried about you.” Cas looked up at him then, his eyes more grey than blue now, glistening with unshed tears.

“Sam is worried about me.” Cas made it sound more a statement than a question, but Dean took his meaning.

“ _I’m_ worried about you,” He replied, softer than he intended, still unwilling to let too much of his own emotion show. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. I didn’t understand what was happening.” He met Cas’s eyes for a brief second before jamming his hands in his pockets and staring at his shoes.

“And you understand now,” Cas again made this a statement more than a question.

“Sam said…” Dean started, then changed his mind. “You really stayed with me, every night?” Now it was Castiel’s turn to look at his shoes.

“I couldn’t watch you suffer. It was too much. I couldn’t handle it. So I did the only thing I could think to do. I’m sorry Dean. I know I crossed a line. I understand if you want me to leave.”

“Leave? No Cas. I don’t want you to leave. I just don’t know how I feel about this. About everything. You gotta give me time to sort it out.” Dean sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. They stood there for a moment, silent, thinking, not looking at one another, and the silence was comfortable for the first time in a long while. They stood there, in unmeasured minutes, sharing the comfortable silence, and Castiel started to think things might be ok.

“Hello Dean,” an unfamiliar voice called out behind Castiel. Both men looked up, and Castiel was struck with a powerful sense of dread. He didn’t recognize the voice, but he knew immediately who it belonged to. “Castiel, it is good to see you, brother.”

Dean looked between Cas and the newcomer, silently willing someone to tell him what the fuck was going on. When no explanation was offered, he demanded one.

“Cas? This guy is your brother?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. Michael is what you would consider my brother. But I do not understand why he is here now.” Castiel had moved away from the swing set, placing himself between Michael and Dean.

“No Castiel, I suppose you might not understand,” Michael’s words were slick, and they from his mouth. “But you did your part, and I am grateful for that. I couldn’t do what I do now without you.”

“What is he talking about, Cas? I thought you didn’t remember your family?” Dean had a blade in hand, Cas didn’t know where it came from, but he knew it would be no use.

“Oh is that what he told you?” Michael smirked, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly, but it was a joyless smile. “What else did he tell you? Did he tell you what he is? Did he confess that his memory is just perfectly intact?”

“Michael don’t.” Castiel warned. Or maybe he was begging. Dean couldn’t tell.

“You know what I am, Dean. You don’t remember, but you know it.” As Michael spoke, Dean felt that resonance again, the slow, building pulse, and it was coming from Michael. But it was wrong, so wrong, for that glorious, perfect acceptance, that sense of wholeness to be coming from someone so oily, someone who looked at him with those greedy eyes. It was wrong and he didn’t understand what was happening. For the first time he tried to push the resonance away, but it pushed back, harder, more forceful, and slammed into him like a punch to the gut.

“You…you’re the one….” He stared at Michael, disbelief warring with the knowledge that bled through the bond he still didn’t understand. He turned to Castiel. “What the hell are you guys?”

“We are angels Dean. Or…Michael is. I was an angel. I gave up my Grace. I’m mortal now.” Castiel didn’t look at Dean.

“Oh but Dean, he lied to you. How does that make you feel?” Michael’s smile was wicked now.

“I’m not really a big fan of talking about my feelings, friendo,” Dean growled, his knuckles white around the handle of his knife, his eyes dark.

“Well then, let’s just cut to the chase, shall we. I need a favour from you. And Castiel here, my poor, misguided brother, so enraptured with humanity, he’s been helping me make sure that there is no way you’re going to say no to me. That’s not what he was planning to do, of course, because he never would have helped me if he knew, but he’s done a fairly decent job of it anyway.” Michael clasped his hands behind his back, pacing casually as he spoke. “Castiel was not lying when he said he gave up his Grace to come here. He has been separated from it since the night he arrived on your doorstep. Very kind of you to take him in, by the way, the lost little puppy. But about that favour. You see, we angels, we cannot come to earth in our true forms. Our true forms are so far beyond human perception, it would burn you little apes to a crisp just to look at us. We need to take a vessel. A human being has to willingly let us in. Castiel here is currently inhabiting the form of a nice young man named Jimmy. But I have a mission, Dean. Our Father has a plan, and in order to play my role in it, _you_ need to be my vessel.”

“Well, you better go back to the drawing board with that plan, asswipe, because there is no way in hell I’m letting you wear me like a Buffalo Bill skin suit.” Michael chuckled.

“You humans and your referential humour.” He smirked, his laugh mirthless and cruel. “But actually Dean, you are going to let me ‘wear you like a skin suit’. And let me tell you why. Because I have your friend Castiel’s Grace. And if you don’t let me in willingly, I’m afraid I have no intentions of giving it back to him. Have you noticed him fading away before your eyes, Winchester? Have you noticed him sinking, even as you tried to deny it to yourself? He cannot live much longer without his Grace, and if I don’t give it back to him, do you know what will happen?” Dean looked at Castiel then, his eyes full of questions. Cas shook his head, slowly, grudgingly.

“If I don’t get my Grace back….Dean…” Castiel tore his eyes away from Dean’s face, unwilling or unable to look at him as he spoke the next words. “If I am not reunited with my Grace soon, my vessel will reject me and there will be nothing I can do about it. I will die a mortal death.”

“I thought you said you were an angel of the Lord, you piece of shit. That sounds a whole lot more like demon methods to me.” Dean spat the words at Michael, his confusion replaced with rage. Dean Winchester did not like being manipulated.

“I do what is necessary to enact the will of Heaven. And you will do what is necessary to keep my brother from harm. I know this, don’t try to deny it. You know the resonance you felt? That’s Grace. You’re bonded with the Grace that pulled you from Hell. There’s a tiny part of it fused with your soul. And who do you think pulled you up? Castiel did, Dean. That’s his Grace you can feel. And now that I hold it, I can feel every fibre of that bond as surely as if I made it with my own hands. I know your soul, Dean Winchester, and I know things about you that you won’t even admit to yourself. You won’t let me hurt one straggly hair on Castiel’s head. You’re too righteous for that. You’ll submit to me now, willingly, so I can carry out our Father’s plan, because you know Castiel would do the same for you.” Michael was still, patient, calm as he spoke.

“And what happens to me if I accept? You wear me to your fancy monster ball like a rented tux, and then what?” Dean was sure he wouldn’t like the answer but asking questions stalled for time. There had to be a way clear of this.

“And then nothing, you small, simple fool. I take you as my vessel and you cease to be. I will burn you out to make room for my Grace.”

“Gosh Mike, I gotta say, you’re making a pretty terrible sales pitch here. Can’t really see a spin on this that isn’t pure garbage. Either I die or he dies?”

“Well no, not exactly. Either you accept and you die, or you refuse me, Castiel dies, and then I visit such suffering on you and everyone you’ve ever loved, like that apish brother of yours, that it makes your vague memories of Hell seem like a blissful dream, and you beg me to burn you out just to stop the agony. Then I, how did you put it? Wear you to my monster ball like a rented tuxedo. This only ends one way. It’s just a matter of who else suffers before we get there.” Dean stared at Michael, nearly shaking with rage now. Dean cursed himself silently for letting Castiel in to his life, for letting his walls down, just a little, and allowing himself to care even the tiniest bit for the blue eyed, dishevelled man. The Angel. Fuck, if that wasn’t the weirdest thing. Dean shook the thought off. It didn’t matter how he felt now, so there was no point in exploring it. Either he died, or the angel died, and then he died anyway, and maybe Sam along with them.

“If I accept, you give Cas back his Grace right now, right?” Dean’s words were shaky, hesitant, quiet. He barely heard himself speak them.

“Dean no!” Cas spun at him, still placing himself between the hunter and his own brother. “You can’t! He’ll destroy you!” Castiel’s voice was full of anger now, at his brother for the betrayal, at himself for not seeing that he was a pawn in this play.

“And if I don’t, he’ll destroy us both. At least this way it’s only me that goes. I shouldn’t be here anyway. You should have left me in Hell.” Dean didn’t look at Cas, but if he had, he would have seen the agony those words put in the angel’s eyes.

“You have my word, Dean Winchester. If you accept, I will return Castiel’s Grace to him right now, and no one will be harmed.” Tears streamed down Castiel’s human face now, sorrow for the loss of the only thing he could ever recall wanting, in all his countless millennia of existence. Sorrow for the suffering that Dean had endured, and for the horrible, unjust end that he would meet.

“Then do it, you righteous dick. Give him back his angel mojo and suit up. Burn me out, ‘cause I am so sick of listening to you yammer on.” Dean’s voice was stronger now but it was deception, because he didn’t feel strong. He was fearful. He was terrified. But he had no other choice, what could he do? Michael smiled at him then, a smooth, unctuous grin creeping over his features, and he raised his vessel’s hand towards Castiel as he closed the distance between them. He placed the hand on Castiel’s shoulder, and Dean’s vision of the two men was blurred by blinding blue light. When he could see again, it appeared that nothing had changed. Dean spoke hesitantly.

“Cas are you…Did he…” He couldn’t finish the thought because the entirety of his being, all of his perception, was full of warmth, of love, of unbridled joy. It was the bond he’d felt, what he now knew to be his link with Castiel’s soul. It resonated, so much stronger than it had before, because of proximity, because Castiel’s Grace was finally reunited with it’s rightful owner and because….because of the love that flowed through it. Dean was dumbfounded. He was sure he must be gaping like a fish. Through that pulsing blue light, that resonance, he felt the adoration and affection and acceptance that had always been there, but now at the closest he’d been to the Grace since the moment of his salvation, the emotion that Castiel had cultivated for him in his human form poured through in crashing waves and it buffeted him like the winds of a hurricane. It filled him to bursting, shocked him and elated him more than he thought possible to know that he was loved, _loved_ like this. He closed his eyes and lost himself in the unbridled emotion that flowed through. Dean only had the briefest of moments to revel in this perfect, glorious feeling for as soon as he put words to what he felt flowing to him through the bond, Castiel sprang in to action. He felt himself being pushed back, _thrown back_ by Castiel’s hands, so much stronger than his human vessel could ever have pushed, fuelled by the power of the angelic Grace he was now in possession of. Castiel’s low, gravely voice chanted softly, in a language that Dean couldn’t identify, but the determination that he felt through the Grace let him know Cas was doing something drastic. He pushed himself up on hands and knees, struggled to stand, but he only got as far as kneeling before he saw Cas sailing through the air, propelled by rage and love and devotion and as he collided with Michael, Dean’s world exploded in agony, and his vision went black, and he slipped in to oblivion.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean had no idea how long he had been unconscious. He woke to daylight filtered through dirty motel windows, a pillow under his head, and pain, but not the crippling agony he felt before he’d blacked out. Distant pain, like the memory of suffering, and a low throb in his skull that told him he’d struck his head. And emptiness. He choked back a sob at that emptiness. It was worse, _so_ much worse than the hollow void he’d felt in his gut when his bond with the Grace had slipped through his fingers. What he felt now was a total absence of that Grace, not like it was far away, but like it had never existed. He must have made some little noise as he stifled the sorrow he felt because Sam was now looming over him, concern and fear and apprehension colouring his brother’s face.

“Dean thank God. I thought you’d never wake up!” Sam looked like he hadn’t been sleeping. Dean wondered how long he’d been out. He made as if to ask, but other words tumbled out instead.

“Where’s Cas?” He knew the answer before he spoke, but it would be an affront to the angel’s sacrifice if he didn’t at least ask. Sam shook his head slowly, just slightly, a tiny movement that Dean would have missed if he wasn’t looking right at him.

“I only found you, Dean. There was no one else in that park. No sign of him. I don’t think….He’s gone, Dean.” Pity, that’s what Dean saw in his brother’s eyes now, and he shut his own to block it out. He’d rather be hated than pitied.

“How long have I been out?” Dean asked, pushing himself up into a seated position gingerly. He noticed he was still wearing his jeans, and the soft, faded AC/DC t-shirt he’d been wearing on that horrible, horrible morning.

“Three days. You haven’t moved a muscle until this morning. I thought about taking you to the hospital, but your breathing was ok and you had a strong pulse, and I know how much you love hospitals.” Sam handed him a glass of water. “You need to eat. You’re probably starving.

“I probably should be, but I’m not, you know? I feel kinda…” Dean stopped. He did not use sentences that started with ‘I feel’.

“Are you gonna tell me what happened out there?” Sam had a way of making himself sound like the older brother in situations like this and Dean didn’t have the energy to assert himself. Maybe he was hungry. Yes. Food.

            “Tell you what, Sammy” Dean offered grudgingly, woodenly. You take me somewhere there’s pancakes, I’ll tell you the whole ugly story.”

 

            It was the first time in Dean’s life that he could recall being totally, completely honest with his brother, or with anyone, for that matter. He told the entire story, everything. The nightmares about Hell, the bond with Castiel’s Grace, their conversation on that fateful morning, the reverence and acceptance and love he felt flowing through the bond, and Castiel’s final sacrifice. His voice hitched as he spoke of Castiel’s final act, but Sam pretended not to notice. Dean stared in to his coffee for a long time after that, not drinking it, the anguish on his face clear as day. Dean had told Sam the entire story but he hadn’t actually given voice to how he felt about the whole ordeal. So Sam made a push.

            “Dean I…” His brother’s eyes shot up, daring him to continue, daring him to intrude on his grief, or his guilt, or whatever he wasn’t putting words to.

            “He died for me, Sam. He sacrificed his life so Michael couldn’t take me. How fucked up is that?” There were unshed tears glistening in Dean’s eyes now and he blinked them away, scrubbing at his face with the back of his hand.

            “You said you felt….Love. Through the bond. Did you let him know how you felt in return?” Sam’s words were careful, tenuous. He wanted to push his brother but he didn’t want to push him away, over the edge.

            “I don’t even _know_ how I feel, Sammy. I never stopped to think about it. Michael showed up almost as soon as I found him. I don’t even know.” Dean was slumped in his seat now, pancakes forgotten, coffee abandoned. “It doesn’t matter now, anyway. He’s gone. I can’t feel his Grace anymore. Even when he was still wherever the fuck angels hang out, I could still feel it if I tried. It’s totally gone now. He’s gone.”

 

            It was weeks before Dean was strong enough to hunt again, physically. Whatever happened that morning didn’t leave any visible wounds, no cuts or scrapes or bruises, but his body was weak and exhausted and he couldn’t have hunted if he wanted to. But even when he grew strong again, Dean found that his will to slip back in to the old life was lacking. He hunted with Sam, because he didn’t know what else to do, but his heart just wasn’t in it. They spent the better part of a year, crisscrossing the country, hunting the same creatures, making the same kills, repeating the same exorcism over and over and over, and Dean didn’t seem like he was ever going to crawl out of his sorrow. Sam tried talking to him about it at first but Dean shut him down. He slipped back in to old defence mechanisms, pretending nothing was wrong, though Sam could see it in his eyes. He stopped trying after the first few months, silently willing his brother to grow a pair and talk about things, but knew it was futile. Dean Winchester, ever the martyr, would bear whatever he was dealing with alone, and he’d let it break him before he admitted he was hurting. Sam assuaged his own guilt by trying to distract his brother with cases, pulling him into interesting hunts, trying to give him something to fill the emptiness. They settled into an uneasy routine, on the surface just like before, but neither of them really believed anything was fixed. Dean began drinking heavily again, not recreationally, but as an escape. He found it easier to ignore the emptiness that haunted him with a belly full of whiskey. The nightmares returned and that was even worse, because every time he woke, sweating and screaming and terrified, he remembered what Cas had done for him, and the void threatened to consume him. So he drunk himself into a stupor as many nights as he could get away with, and let the alcohol dull the pain, and let himself pass out rather than fall asleep. The nightmares still came, but they woke him less, though they were just as painful.

            Dean drained the last of his glass of cheap bourbon with a sigh, and reached for the bottle to pour another. Sam spared him a judging glance, but said nothing, and Dean ignored it. The bottle was empty. When had that happened? Dean stopped counting the number of glasses he poured lately. He drank until it stopped hurting, mostly, and on some level he knew that he was drinking more, and more, and more, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He stood up, grabbing his coat, and went for the door.

            “Where are you going Dean? It’s like midnight.” Dean swayed on his feet a little. His eyes were glassy.

            “Out, Sammy. I’m going outside.” He flashed his brother a wan smile. “Can’t stay cooped up in this room forever. Don’t wait up.” Dean strode out of the room without another glance for his brother. Sam was half way out of his chair before he decided it was pointless. Dean wasn’t going to deal with his feelings, here or in a bar or wandering the streets, and Sam following him wasn’t going to change that. He went back to his research, trying to find a case that Dean might spare half his attention for, feeling entirely helpless.

            Dean was disappointed to find that the liquor store around the corner from their motel room was closed. It closed hours ago. There was a diner across the street, but they didn’t serve booze. Dean grimaced, hunching his shoulders and drawing his leather jacket closer against the wind that picked up, blowing leaves and dust across the empty parking lot. He glanced around him, briefly considering going back to the motel room, then turned on his heel and took off in the opposite direction. The streets were dark, save the occasional streetlight. Dean decided it was unlikely he’d find a watering hole in this tiny town, but he didn’t want to go back, not yet. He couldn’t bear the pity in Sam’s eyes. How could his brother possibly understand? Castiel had given everything for him. He’d dragged him from Hell even though they’d never met, he didn’t know Dean, didn’t owe him anything. He’d broken off a piece of his own Grace, the very thing that made him an angel. He’d given up part of himself to make Dean whole, and then he’d given up the rest of his Grace just to be near Dean. And then he’d given up everything else, let himself be obliterated, to save Dean from his own brother. And Dean was so selfish, so broken and damaged and emotionally stunted, that he couldn’t even bring himself to actually acknowledge how he felt about the sacrifice. It was absurd, he told himself. As he wound his way slowly though the deserted streets, he also allowed his mind to wander. He thought about Cas’s eyes, those piercing blue eyes that mirrored the shade of blue from his dreams. He wondered if that was the vessel’s natural eye colour, or if Cas had wrought that himself. He thought about the grey that replaced that blue towards the end, before Michael, before whatever Cas had done to blow them both out of the water and save Dean’s ass. He thought about how many nights Cas must have spent, crawling in to his own bed, cradling him in a manner that was so selfless, so tender, placing a hand on the mark on his shoulder, soothing his nightmares. He thought about how selfless that was, for Cas to have taken such care with him, and never, ever let on, never let Dean see how much he cared, for fear of driving him away. And he thought about how much better things were when Cas was around. He had always been a buffer between himself and Sam, but Dean realized then that he actually missed the angel’s presence. He’d spent the last year telling himself the hollow in his belly was the absence of that resonance, and the guilt eating at him for letting Cas die for him. Apparently, if you lie to yourself long enough, you _do_ start to believe it. Dean sighed. _Great,_ he thought to himself. _So I’m in love with a dead angel. What exactly did I accomplish by admitting that?_ Dean kept walking, still not ready to face Sam, still alone in his grief. Figuring this out gave him more questions than answers. This is why he didn’t do chick flick moments. This is why he didn’t do feelings.

            Dean thought back to their conversation at the strip club on the first hunt Cas helped out with. _People always exploit each other. As soon as there’s something you want, someone finds a way to use it against you,_ Castiel had said. He was talking about strippers then, but it’s exactly what Michael had done. He’d used Castiel, exploited what he felt for Dean. And in his twisted way, he’d used it against Dean too. Dean had never let anyone but Sammy in and even his brother he kept at arm’s length. But he couldn’t deny he wanted what Cas had been so willing to give him. The love, the perfect acceptance he’d felt through the Grace, right before Cas died, that was all he could remember ever having wanted. He just hadn’t ever admitted it, even to himself. Michael had known it somehow, and he’d manipulated him, twisted him, taken that honest desire and warped it to his own ends, and it had cost Cas everything. And now Dean would never get the chance to really let Cas in. He doubted he’d ever make the mistake of letting those walls down again.

ῼ

He didn’t know how long it had been, between the confrontation with Michael, and his return to awareness. There had been complete oblivion, no perception, no thought, just, nothing, and he was only aware of the nothing because his awareness now was such a stark contrast. It returned slowly, like a picture coming in to focus, first blurred edges and vagaries and hints of something behind the veil, then outlines and concepts and knowledge, and finally full blown presence and he came back to himself, slamming into an understanding of what he’d done, and if he’d had lungs to breathe, he would have gasped. If he had eyes, they would be weeping.

            _Why do I exist?_ Castiel sent the thought out aimlessly, not knowing if there was to be any response. He let himself still, searching for any kind of presence, for a sibling or a celestial body or something that would tell him what plane he was on, why he had been brought back from the total oblivion that should have been the result of what he did to Michael.

            _Because it is the will of our Father_ , came the reply, sensation more than sentence, ideas more than words. _You made a sacrifice, Castiel. It was endlessly noble, it was selfless, and you should not bear punishment for that._ Castiel took all of this in with confusion.

_But was it not our Father’s plan that Michael should use the Righteous Man as his vessel?_ Castiel queried **.** _He said it was the will of Heaven. Why am I being rewarded for intervening?_ Castiel pondered the presence that spoke to him, and recognized it as Gabriel, older than he, mischievous, but still deeply respected among his siblings.

            _It was the will of Heaven that Michael ask the Righteous Man to be his vessel. What Michael did, what he proposed to do, that was abomination. There are always other ways within the pattern. He was not the only way, and even if he had been, it wouldn’t justify the perversion._

_Did you do this, Gabriel? Did you bring me back?_

_No little brother, that’s well beyond my power. But we have always been close, and it was felt that you could use a friend._ The concept of friend was sent hesitantly, like the other angel only had a tenuous grasp on what it meant. _There are things, though, that are within my power, things that are not abominations. Your resurrection is not a reward, it is simply a reparation for what has been done against you. I would give you your reward now, if you will have it._

ῼ

            Dean walked for hours that night, aimless, hopeless, by turns raging and fighting back tears. He raged silently at Michael, for destroying the only thing he could ever recall wanting. He raged at Castiel, wept and raged and wept, because even with the knowledge of how pure the love had been, how deeply rooted the emotion that flowed through the now broken bond had been, Dean didn’t feel himself worth dying for. He would rather sacrifice himself a thousand times over than live with the knowledge that someone like Cas had died for him, and in that moment, Dean thought he finally understood what it was to let himself love another person. He glanced at his phone for the time, and saw that it was now nearly four am and that Sam had called him seven times and sent him 15 text messages. He didn’t read any of them. Stuffing his phone back in to his pocket, he felt slightly guilty for the worry Sam must be feeling, but wallowing in self pity didn’t leave much room for it and he let it drag him down again. Dean rounded a corner and found himself across the street from a park. There was a baseball diamond, identical to any one of millions strewn across small towns throughout the country, and a set of monkey bars, and a swingset. He let his legs guide him, not really thinking, not wanting to think, and sat on a swing, the icy chains chilling his hands in the night. It was made for someone much shorter than Dean, so his feet touched the ground and pushed his knees up. He didn’t push off, just sat there, staring in to the darkness, breathing slowly and deeply. In the fog of his grief he could almost believe he felt the pull of Cas’s Grace again, even now, so long after he’d lost him, and it hurt so, so much more to feel the memory of that resonance and know it was gone for good. He tried to fight it back, but instead it pulled him in, and it was all he could do to keep himself from weeping openly. Dean Winchester didn’t cry in public, even if there was no one around to see. His eyes were closed, lids a barrier against unshed tears but even so, the flash that lit the night, like heat lightning but a thousand, million times more brilliant, was impossible to ignore. He threw up an arm to shield himself but by the time he moved, it was already over, and when he opened his eyes, he was sure he’d been scarred by the light, because there is no way he should be seeing what he was seeing.

            Castiel stood before him, blinked his human eyes hesitantly as if testing to make sure they were real. He smiled with his human mouth, like he wasn’t sure there was a mouth there to smile with.

            “Hello, Dean,” was all he said, but it was enough, and it was too much. Dean was off the swing, running, closing the paces between them as fast as he could ever recall having seen the man move and his hands were on Castiel’s shoulders, gripping him with agonizing strength, as if he couldn’t believe he was real, as if he thought he’d disappear the moment he let go.

            “Cas…” His eyes were bright with tears, his voice reverent, and no, he couldn’t believe it, a trick of the light, a drunk hallucination, something more sinister, anything, anything at all was easier to believe than what his eyes told him, what his hands told him.

            “I am here Dean. This is real.” And Dean relished every word that fell from those lips, every syllable that poured like honey and gravel and whiskey and ashes, the low rumble of that voice he thought he’d never hear again except in his dreams. He knew he should speak, that he should say something, anything. If he’d had the presence of mind he’d tell him all the things he should have said before, would have said if he’d had the self-awareness to know they existed to be said. Tell him all the things he’d realized this night, as he walked and wallowed in self pity and despair and pain, but he found he hadn’t the words. So instead he breathed deeply, and poured all those unspoken words, the emotions he couldn’t give voice to, and he poured them in to the glowing blue light that waited, hesitantly, at the back of his mind. He pushed into that bond which only minutes before he thought was a cruel trick, a brutal memory, that he now knew was real, because Castiel was standing before him in the flesh, and Castiel’s eyes went wide, and his mouth went slack.

            “Oh…” Cas gasped, startled, clearly unprepared for the reverence he felt flowing back at him. It was everything he felt for Dean, all the same marvel and wonderment and joy and absolute acceptance he carried for the man, mirrored back at him. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come, because Dean’s lips were brushing against his now, gently, just a touch, and that kiss was like electricity coursing through his veins. Dean pulled back, and the kiss was over so quickly that Castiel could almost believe he’d imagined it. He looked up in to Dean’s green eyes and found love there, and Dean stared back in to Castiel’s bright perfect blues and found the same. Castiel smiled, just a slight smile, a curving of his lips, as he leaned in and kissed Dean in earnest now. The kiss was a benediction, a prayer, full of worship and adoration. It was a tangible representation of everything he wanted to say but could not, everything good and real and true that he loved about humanity, loved about this hunter. _His_ hunter, now. He’d marked him, before, when he raised him from Hell, accidentally made but purposely left, and he’d marked him again when he gave up a fragment of his Grace to make Dean whole, but it was only now when the adoration was returned that he could really feel that it was true. He kissed Dean fervently, reverently, and it was all he could ever recall having wanted.

 

            It was full daylight by the time Dean returned to his and Sam’s motel room that late winter morning, frost crunching under his boots as he crossed over grassy boulevards, Cas beside him, their hands entwined. Sam was awake, and Dean couldn’t be certain, but he did not look like he’d actually slept.

            “Where the fuck were….” Sam cut his question off, as Dean stepped through the doorway, and the younger Winchester’s eyes fell on the smiling angel. He had so many more questions now, the least of which was _how???_ But instead of asking them he stood, crossing the room quickly, and drew the angel and his brother both into a hug, ignoring Dean’s resistance, laughing at the angel’s awkward limbs. There would be plenty of time for questions later. This moment was a gift.

 

 

ῼ

            Castiel stayed with the Winchester brothers full time from that morning on. He was infinitely more effective as a hunter now that his angelic power was returned to him, for which Sam was grateful, but he was not ignorant of the angel’s real reason for staying. Castiel shared Dean’s bed now, as a rule. They still rented two rooms in each town, for privacy, although Dean assured his younger brother nothing private was happening. Sam was less inclined to believe that, but if Dean wanted to keep quiet on that particular subject, he’d hear no protests. Only now instead of the hunter and the angel bedding down across the room from each other, and Castiel creeping across in the dead of night to shield the taller man from his nightmares, they climbed into bed together and Castiel kept the nightmares away completely. He could have soothed them away with a single touch, a pulse of his Grace, wiped the fear from his mind as easy as breathing. Instead, he cradled the hunter in his arms, as Dean lay his head on the pillow, and drew warding symbols on his skin with tender, gentle fingers, and curled those fingers through his hair, and whispered the same soothing words he had all those nights before, when Dean was oblivious to the love he felt. He whispered all these things to him now, while he was awake, so Dean would know he was safe, that he was loved, that nothing would ever hurt him again, and Dean let him, because in the angel’s embrace, he finally knew what it was to let someone in.


End file.
